Marked On My Body
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: An AU which imagines that Richard and Isobel might have met before the start of Series 1, when they were working as part of the army's medical corps during the Boer War, and had an affair. The plot will follow that of Series 1, but not closely. This story will pay major homage to The English Patient.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this is the AU I've been promising you all. This may be a rather slow writing process as I haven't finished the story yet and will probably need to do research so that this story is at least plausible. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. The chronology of the present might vaguely follow the plot of series 1 but it won't be able to do it rigidly, and nor do I want it to. I'm sort of crazy-nervous about this so I'd really appreciate a review.**

**1912**

Isobel Crawley arrived in Downton on a mild morning, in bright light from the sun as it neared midday, with just a hint of chill in the air.

He could not believe his eyes when he first saw her.

Of course, he had already known that it was going to be her. As soon as he heard her name, given the circumstances of her arrival. How many widows called Isobel Crawley from Manchester had sons called Matthew? If there were two he would have been genuinely surprised. It _had _to be her. If he hadn't known, in his heart, that it _was_ going to be her, he would have hardly hovered in the close vicinity of his office window all morning, where he could see all the way down Downton High Street to the door to Crawley House, kidding himself that he was not waiting for the car to pass. He had waited for her arrival with a feeling of such excited unease that disturbed him all day and left him awake all night for nights on end, tangled up in his sheets, eyes wide in the darkness, seeing nothing but images from the distant past which rose effortlessly, alarmingly vivid.

That it was her, his Isobel- he hardly dared to think of like that, but still that rebellious voice rose inside him- did not surprise him, but the _way_ that she was did. He saw her descend from the car, helped by a young man who was taller than her, who must have been her son. He had never met Matthew Crawley before. He saw even from the distance that she bowed her head for a moment as she got out of the car, completely elegant in such a careless way. She was wearing a vivid burgundy coat and hat, so much like the woman remembered. When he had known her, dressed almost constantly in cool white clothes or uniform under the African heat, she had complained that she looked the same as every other woman in sight, she felt like a machine. Of course, she never had done, never, not to him. She could never be the same as anyone else.

And the case was the same when he saw her more closely, when she passed his window at the hospital, peering at the building. He did not think she saw him watching, she seemed to be on her way somewhere. She was _exactly_ the same as he remembered her. Her face a little more lined, perhaps, and grey starting to show in her hair, but apart from that she was completely unchanged. Everything that mattered was the same; the angle at which she held her head, the way she walked, the look dancing in her eyes, the look that had completely beaten him in so many ways all those years ago. She was still so _Isobel_. What else had he expected? Why should she have changed?

The woman he had loved- and loved so strongly, like an ache, loved entirely, completely- was unchanged, unaltered, and had walked back into his life as coolly and collectedly as she always was. The realisation hit him like a tidal wave; a relief and a solid smack in the face both at the same time. The woman he had loved, had kissed, had held in his arms, the woman whose ringed fingers he had held in his, the woman who had-... His heart pounded and his throat constricted at the very thought. In truth, he had never thought he'd see her again. He had never expected to. He thought he'd die, never having seen her again; he'd thought he'd seen her eyes, her beautiful smile for the last time on this earth. And he was able to live with that. Almost. But he was not prepared, in any way, for this, in spite of his premonitions. He was not ready for Isobel Crawley again, after all they'd been though together- or not together, as the case may more accurately have been.

These thoughts rose ever more frequently in his mind. Every time he saw her figure in the street, or heard her name mentioned his memories seemed to overpower him. He wondered if it would be presumptuous of him to call on her, decided that it would, and decided against it. Anyway, if he hadn't had the courage to write to her in nearly ten years, he supposed a home visit would probably be out of the question. But what if she fell ill? Not that she had ever shown signs of a weak constitution when he knew her, but then he would not be able to avoid seeing her. Or what if her son, or one of the family at the house, and she was there when it happened-...?

In the end he was spared this interminable deliberation and conjecture by a message from Lady Grantham, which told him exactly how they would finally meet.

Cousin Isobel, she wrote, had shown great interest in helping at the hospital in any way she could, and would it be agreeable to him if she called around to introduce herself the day after tomorrow? He smiled to himself at Lady Grantham's choice of words, thinking how little introduction this woman needed. But he sent a note back with the driver nevertheless saying that it was certainly agreeable, and that he looked forward to it.

In a way it was almost true. For the next few days, he felt like a child counting down to Christmas. He could hardly wait to see Isobel in person, though the thought terrified him so much that it almost brought him out in a cold sweat.

The day dawned warmer than the day she had arrived. He woke with the first light, rising well on time to make sure he could have a bath and a decent shave. He was at the hospital earlier than usual, though she had sent a message saying that she would not be there until after lunchtime. Her writing was tidier than he remembered. He knew it had got tidier. He still had her letters, the notes they'd sent each other, the ones he'd sent to her too. He remembered distinctly.

"_Please keep my letters for me. I don't want my husband to find them."_

"_But he knows."_

"_Even so. I don't think it would be very kind to risk letting him find them."_

He had agreed, thinking that he would keep them forever, thinking that she would never see them again. Well, he was not so certain of that now. Of course he was, he thought angrily, just because he was going to see her again was no guarantee that things could ever be like they were. It would be foolish to think that. Very foolish. The best part of his morning was passed like this, wasted in furious, infuriating quarrels with himself, with his own conscious and memory.

In the end, she arrived at about two o'clock. She arrived on foot, not by car. Seeing her approach from the window, he raced out of his office and down the corridor, brushing down his coat as he went, making it more creased than anything else.

He opened the door just in time to see her coming up the hospital steps. She raised her head at the sound of the catch. They stood still for a moment, just looking at each other, his hand on the door. Her lips parted a little in surprise.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mrs Crawley," he stepped forwards, holding out his hand for her.

She shook it firmly, still wearing her gloves her eyes on his face.

"It's good to see you," he told her nervously, "And quite a surprise to find out you're going to be living here."

"Yes, it was rather," she agreed, "I'm surprised you recognise me."

"It's only been ten years," he told her, without really thinking about how dismissive that could sound, "What I mean is, I would know you anywhere."

She gave him a small smile at that, and made a small sound that sounded like clearing her throat.

"I really would like to help," she told him, "If you've room for me."

"We have room for all the competent help we can get," he admitted.

"That's good," she replied.

There was a moment's pause.

"Do come in," he told her, realising that they were still standing on the front step, and though they had let go of each other's hand, their fingers had not moved far away from each other, "Would you like me to show you around?"

"Yes, I would like that," she told him, stepping inside before him while he held the door open for her.

…**...**

All in all their tour lasted about two hours, though the hospital was not large. They took their time, discussing things as they went, and she asked many intelligent questions.

They stopped naturally at the end of the main corridor, observing from a distance the progress of some younger nurse's carrying equipment towards the store. They smiled as they passed them, and once they had gone, Isobel turned her head towards Richard, watching his face for a moment, in a look he was almost too nervous to return, kindly as it was.

"I could hardly believe it was you," she told him, "When I found out who the doctor here was."

She said it as if it had mildly amused her; when the discovery that it was her who would be arriving had alarmed him. She had always been the braver one of the two.

"Did you know before you came?" he asked her, "Or did they mention my name up at the house?"

"They confirmed it," she told him, "When we were all talking about it last night. But I already knew. I found out before we came, just because I was curious to see if it was someone we knew. We know most medical people to one degree or another, after all. I couldn't believe it."

He smiled a little.

"You couldn't believe it was someone you know so well?" he surmised.

She gave a hum that was partly assent and partly amusement. And partly something else, a query, perhaps? Perhaps she was wondering if it was right to say that she still knew him well.

He bowed his head, talking in a low voice so that there was no chance of anyone overhearing them.

"I was sorry to hear about Reginald's death," he told her softly, "I wanted to come to the funeral. But I didn't think that would be the best way to re-introduce myself. It wouldn't have been-..."

"No," she agreed, saving him the trouble of finding a word that they would both agree with, "I thought it must have been something like that. It would have been nice to have got a letter from you, though," she added as an afterthought, soothing the sharpness, the accusing note, that rose in her voice with a small smile.

"Yes," he replied, bowing his head in humility, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid my courage failed me there. I have no excuse."

"It doesn't matter, Richard," she told him quietly, slipping with apparent ease back into the use of his first name, "It was seven years ago, and I understand."

"Thank you," he told her sincerely, "It is very good of you to say so, Isobel."

Her smile grew a little fixed.

"It was difficult," she admitted, "Not hearing from you for so long. After Reginald had died. I wondered if you might write."

"I couldn't have known if you'd want to hear from me," he told her, "I thought if you'd wanted me you would have written and asked. You were always good at-... making your feelings known. When you wanted to."

He thought she detected the hint of reproach in his voice, and she seemed to take it well.

"Yes, I was, wasn't I?" she agreed, "I suppose you could say I found myself feeling shy too. Of course I understand, Richard."

"I'm glad," he told her, "If we are going to be working together."

"Yes, it seems that we are, doesn't it?" she observed, "I hope that won't be a problem. We did always work rather well together."

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" he agreed with a smile. It was hardly surprising given the circumstances, really, he thought, but it did not make it any less true, "Of course, it won't be a problem."

"That's good," she replied, "I'm sorry, but I really think I ought to be getting home now. Matthew will be back and I want to hear about his first day at his new job."

"Of course," he told her, turning and leading her down the corridor towards the front door of the hospital, "How do you find Crawley House?"

"I like it well enough," she replied, "It's a house, just like any other. Anywhere will do for me, just so long as Matthew's happy."

Really, she had not changed in the slightest. He smiled at her.

"I hope I'll be able to meet your son at last," he told her.

"Oh, you will," she told him, with one of her wry looks, "I think the conditions of our being here are that _everyone_ is going to meet Matthew. But I should particularly like you to meet him. It's only right, really."

They exchanged a small smile, which assured him that he knew what she really meant. They had reached the door, holding it open for her, so that late afternoon light from the street beamed in.

"And don't be a stranger," he told her, "If you need anything, you know where I am. Or actually, do you?" he amended, realising that she probably did not, "I live in the cottage that's just at the end of the street that separates the hospital from the rest of the main street," he told her, "It's right next to the fields."

"That sounds nice," she remarked.

"It is," he told her.

"Richard, I'd like it if we could be friends," she told him suddenly, quite seriously, as if blurting it out, "I don't know if that's all I want, but I know that for certain. Is that alright?" she asked.

Taken aback as he was, he was hard-pressed to stop himself beaming.

"Yes, Isobel, that's alright. That's more than alright."

She smiled at him.

"Thank you, Richard."

And she went out through the door, down the steps and onto the High Street, looking for all the world as if she'd lived there her whole life for all the confidence she apparently had. He watched her go, full of admiration, with the trace of an ache at the back of his chest. She had not changed at all.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Ladysmith, South Africa, March 1900**

"You never did marry, did you, Clarkson?"

Sat at his desk, bent over the admission form, Richard looked up in surprise at the question. Not that it was meant unkindly, he was sure, but just that he hadn't been expecting it at that moment.

From the chair at the other side of the desk Reginald Crawley, his sometime acquaintance from back in his medical school days, smiled indulgently at him, and he knew he wasn't meant to take it to heart; he had been used to Crawley's gentle teasing when he knew him earlier.

"No, I didn't," he replied curtly, pretending to take moderate offence for a moment, and bending back over the admission form.

"You ought to have tried it, you know," Crawley told him, "Does me the power of good. I know I'd be lost without my Isobel."

"That much is obvious," Richard replied, only a little dryly, turning his head to a similar form regarding Crawley's wife that lay before him on the desk.

"You don't approve of my bringing her," Crawley surmised with the hint of a grin.

Richard frowned.

"It's not that I disapprove," he corrected, "Frankly, we need all the help we can get here and I'm grateful for whatever portion of it comes my way. But I'm surprised you didn't leave her at home, Crawley. I'm surprised she didn't want to be left at home."

"That's because you haven't met her yet," Crawley insisted, "You just wait until you meet my Isobel. She's as keen as anything. Don't worry, she knows it'll be hard out here. There aren't many kind of discomfort that would put her off once she's decided what she wants."

"I'd hardly call nearly a thousand men dead from typhoid at Bloemfontein a mere discomfort," Richard murmured in reply, "But if your wife really is reconciled with this... And I do take it that you wouldn't have brought her if you didn't think she was a competent nurse..."

"She is the best there is," Crawley surmised proudly, "If I do say so myself."

"Well, I'm not in much of position to turn that sort of help down," Richard replied, briefly examining Mrs Crawley's form and papers.

"She'll be very pleased indeed," Crawley told him, "We did get the feeling that we were arriving as part of something like a relief column."

"You're not wrong about that," Richard replied, ruefully.

"Have you been here since the start?"

"As good as. I started off a Lieutenant like you, but my commanding officer was caught by a stray bullet in November."

They were quiet for a few moments, as Richard made a few notes on Mrs Crawley's papers.

"Well, everything certainly seems to be in order here, Lieutenant Crawley," Richard told him at last, "You're rather fortunate in that we should be able to get you some rather good quarters. Since we've taken over the town properly we've commandeered a rather good hotel and we should be able to let you and your wife have a suite there."

"Is that where you're based?" Crawley asked him.

"Sadly, no," Richard replied, "I've had to make do with a rather perfunctory little flat just across the street from here. It was thought prudent that I always be in the near vicinity. Still, I can't complain, at least I have a roof over my head. Where is your wife, by the way?"

"I left her out in the corridor," Crawley told him, "She's got our suitcases. Didn't think I would bother her with the business side of things. She was quite tired out from the train."

"Well, then, should we go out and see her?" Richard asked, "I'll help take your things down to the car and show you to the hotel if you like."

"Yes, that would be most helpful," Crawley told him, "I think you and Isobel will get on like a house on fire, you know."

He had to admit he was rather curious to meet Crawley's wife, and this assertion made him raise an eyebrow as Crawley stood up and turned towards the door. It was true, when they had been at medical school Crawley had always seemed to be in vague, unexplained emotional tangles with one girl or other, but Richard could not remember one called Isobel, and he wouldn't have said that he himself was likely to get on with any of the ones he could.

Richard led the way towards his office door, holding it open for Crawley to go through.

"Darling?" Crawley called down the corridor, "Are you still there, darling?"

"Of course I am," came the curt soft-voiced reply.

Sitting on the wooden bench in the corridor beside three identical brown suitcases was Mrs Crawley, dressed in white coat, hat and gloves. She stood up to her full height as the two of them approached, about the same height as Richard- she would be a little shorter without her boots. Richard couldn't say that he thought she looked particularly tired out; there was, if anything, a little spark in her eyes as she surveyed him.

"Darling, this is Captain Richard Clarkson," Crawley told her, kissing her once on the cheek, "We trained together. He seems to be in charge around here."

"And _are_ you in charge, Captain Clarkson?" Mrs Crawley asked, giving him a very thorough look, extending her hand for him to shake. She had a pleasantly firm handshake and very brown eyes. Crawley's wife was a pretty girl, there was no denying that; poised at some indeterminate point between youth and real womanhood. She had too a rather insinuating stare.

"I suppose you would say that, Mrs Crawley," he told her, for some reason inclining his head to her a little humbly. He did not know why, but she seemed to have unnerved him slightly.

"Then I suppose we shall probably be working together," Mrs Crawley surmised, "That is if you'll agree to take me on?"

"He has done," her husband supplied.

"There is plenty of work for you both here," Richard told her, "Of that, at least, I can assure you."

He spoke clearly, hoping she would understand: all he could guarantee was hard, largely unpleasant work, and lots of it. Not safety, or happiness, or any kind of success. Not even survival.

But luckily it seemed that she did understand him.

"That's all you need to assure me of," she replied, with a look that conveyed such implicit understanding. Their eyes met for a moment, and held, before Richard, or both of them, looked abruptly away.

There was a moment's pause.

"Excellent," Richard declared, his voice light, for some reason trying to avoid looking at Mrs Crawley, "Well, if you'll allow me to help with the cases, I think we can be getting into the car, and I will show you to your quarters."

…**...**

The next day dawned brighter, but slightly colder. There was a lot of light in Richard's main ward, as Isobel Crawley appeared in the door, dressed in her freshly-issued white and blue uniform. The blonde-brown hair visible under cap glowed a little in the light from the windows and Richard was hard-pressed not to notice that she cut rather an elegant figure, even in the modest pattern of her uniform. Pushing these quite unprofessional thoughts out of his mind with annoyance, he gave her a polite smile and approached to see if he could help.

"Dr. Crawley sent me through," she told him by way of explanation, "He says we're rather overstaffed in the ward he's been given, but there isn't enough in your ward."

"So he sent _you _through?" he asked, slightly surprised.

She seemed to detect an undertone in his voice.

"Yes," she replied, a little defensively, and then, when he did not quantify his remark, "Would you rather he had sent someone else?"

"No," he replied, a little hastily. Really, he had only been surprised that the chap had chosen to send his own wife, it was not a complaint. To say so might have sounded insincere, though, so he asked, "So he's managing alright, then?"

"Yes, fine," she replied, "Dr. Crawley asked me to tell you that quite frankly things are much better than he expected them to be."

Obviously, she was used to calling him that, and would not change to using his military style in the very near future. He remembered that Crawley had said she often assisted him at the hospital where they lived, in Manchester.

This time he detected an undertone in her voice, something that told him she did not share her husband's approval of the situation. Or perhaps she was just impatient with him, thinking that he did not want her in his ward. Perhaps Crawley had told her that he had had misgivings when he had been told that he had brought his wife. She was watching him questioningly, warily, with something like suspicion.

"And do you disagree with him, Nurse Crawley?" he asked her.

She was quiet for a moment.

"Well, quite honestly, I don't know how you manage," she told him.

"I wouldn't say we were _that _bad," he replied, trying not to wince uncomfortably at this rather honest appraisal of the situation.

"I would," she countered stoutly, "There aren't enough beds; the equipment, as far as I've seen is basic; I'm sure Reginald's being kind when he says "overstaffed"-..."

"Well, Nurse Crawley, we're a long way from Manchester General now."

She coloured a little.

"I know that. But back in England the impression you get f the situation out here is rather different. I read quite a glowing report about the General Hospital in Cape Town when we were on the train to London."

"Well, I'm sorry to fall short of your high expectations, Mrs Crawley, but we're only a stationary hospital," he told her curtly, for some reason her criticism wounded him, though he knew it was not personal and that he _had _asked for her opinion, "We _have_ to make do with stretchers for the most part. We have to deal with the circumstances we are given."

"I know," she replied doggedly, seeming to grow more irritated, "I'm not trying to say it's your fault, Dr. Clarkson. I'm saying just saying, you'd think there would be a little more support from Central Command, with so many patients to take care of. It just doesn't seem right. These men have given their best for their country and the country doesn't seem to do much about their welfare once they're finished."

"I think you've come to the wrong place, then," he told her quietly, and a little brusquely, "If you're looking for shining example of welfare. We do what we can." For some reason, his heart was seemed to be skipping a little in his chest, and it made him feel fractious. He was certainly reacting more aversely to her criticisms than he usually would. "And it's best if you just learn to get on with it. And if you're so concerned about the men's welfare, perhaps you'd better get a move on and start your rounds rather than standing here telling me things that I already know."

He knew that he had snapped at her unnecessarily then, but still he could not reproach himself. Somehow, he had the feeling that it had been her fault- that she had wound him up-, though he knew rationally that it was not; and she would have had more than the right to reproach him, though he was her superior.

For a moment, her dark brown eyes flashed dangerously, and he though she was going to. She was evidently smarting.

But all she said was, "Very well, Doctor," before turning sharply on her heel and stalking off down the ward to begin her rounds; her pace quick and angry.

He sighed in annoyance, watching the gentle curl at the back of her hair and the slight sway of her walk with an absent mind as her back retreated away from him. Somehow, he did not think they were quite getting on like a house on fire.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for all your reviews so far. I really love hearing what you think, they are very helpful and I'm so glad you're enjoying it.**

**1912**

He watched her patrolling up and down the ward with a care and an efficiency that he remembered. Standing by the doorway, it brought a smile to his lips as he observed her for moment, unbeknownst to her absorbed it her work. To someone only able to see her silhouette, she was exactly the same as she had been a decade ago. But now many things were considerably brighter. She was wearing a vividly dark pink blouse under her white apron, her hair pinned back glimmered more colours than it had used to.

He liked having her here; he liked it immensely. Not only because it was _her_, but because she was such a wonderful nurse. She understood the patients, and understood their various ailments, to a degree that defied the fact that she had never set foot in a medical school. Of course, that she was the love of his life added a little to his appreciation of her presence. She would always be the love of his life, he thought. Could he possibly think that and not think that he was in love with her now? He did not know if he was. All he knew for certain was that he liked the fact that she was here very much. And that they were friends, he liked that too. They really were, and, he thought, he refused to spoil that by over-stepping the mark. He shook his head rather firmly, trying to clear his brain.

Lost in thought, he had not seen that she had seen that he was watching her. She smiled at him softly, telling him she did not mind. Despite her outstanding neatness there was always a stray lock of disobedient hair that tumbled away from the rest. Today it rested gently on her forehead, and he watched it as she bobbed closer to him. Taking her apron off, she moved across the ward to where he stood.

"Would I be able to have a word with you?" she asked, "In your office."

"Of course," he replied, "Here, give me your apron," he told her, offering his hand, "I'll have one of the girls give it a wash and a press for you."

"Thank you," she handed it to him, and a moment later followed him out of the ward towards his office.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked her, as soon as the door was closed behind him and she had accepted his offer of the chair before his desk, "You are alright, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied breezily, "It's one of the patients I want to talk to you about. Mr Drake, to be exact."

"The dropsy case?" he asked, sinking into his own chair, "Yes, it is a sad affair. But what in particular concerns you about it?"

"How you intend to treat him."

As usual she did not skirt around her criticisms. He could see a familiar look in her eyes.

"Nurse Crawley," he began in level tones, "With all respect-..."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from her, and regarded her closely over his clasped hands. As he had expected, her brow was creased in a frown and she did not look pleased.

"With all respect, you're not going to listen to me?" she finished for him.

It was his turn to frown.

"What were you going to suggest?" he asked her, trying not to show his annoyance; demonstrating to her that he was going to at least listen to her.

That was something he had had to learn to do, when she had last known him; gradually he had come to realise that he couldn't not listen to Isobel Crawley, and now he thought he caught the hint of a smile on her lips as she sat up a little straighter in her chair.

"Draining the fluid from the pericardial sack," she told him, "And then adrenaline. Into the heart."

He did not say anything for a moment.

"The results really are remarkable," she supplied, "It's a while ago now, obviously, but I saw Reginald do it. I know how it's done."

Still, he did not reply to her. His interest, though he was ashamed to admit it, had been more caught by the fact that her voice betrayed no hint of emotion as she spoke her late husband's name, more as if she were talking of an old acquaintance. She uttered it with far less feeling than she ever did her son's.

"I've no doubt you do, but that would be a great risk," he told her gravely, "And it would set a precedent of offering extraordinary treatments that we simply could not maintain for every villager that has a cough or a splutter. And what's more, where would we get the adrenaline?"

She gave him a look that told him she was more than capable of laying her hands on some adrenaline, should the situation demand.

"Then I would remind you that this is considerably more than a cough or splutter," she told him, "It's a man's life, and quite possibly his family's too, if they depend on him, which I would be willing to wager they do. And I would say that it's far less risky than your approach; which seems to entail just waiting for him to die."

She had struck hard this time, and she knew it. His face grew a little red and he looked down at his hands. She could still be vicious in her own way, he thought, she knew just how to get to him.

"You said you wanted us to be friends," he reminded her, with a hint of reproach, after a moment's consideration of her apparent complaints.

"That doesn't mean I can't criticise you," she told him smartly in such a tone of voice that actually managed to make him smile for a moment before becoming serious again.

Suddenly, in a mad moment, he thought he saw what this was about.

"Is this because you prefer your husband's methods to mine?" he asked her, a little testily.

"You know perfectly well that has nothing to do with it," she told him a little sharply, but her voice still calm, "I don't think I need to remind you of the times I put you before him. The times I chose you before him. The _many _times."

She coloured a little as she spoke, and he felt awful for making what he instantly realised was such a cheap and hurtful jibe, as well as a plainly stupid thing to say.

"I'm sorry, Isobel," he told her softly, bowing his head, feeling utterly humble and stupid, her Christian name slipping from his tongue without thinking about it, "I shouldn't have said that."

She did not correct him.

"No, you shouldn't," she told him, "But it's alright."

He sighed a little, and they were both quiet for a few moments.

"You've always been so cautious, Richard," she told him. "In everything you do. That's not a criticism. Well, not entirely. And sometimes, Reginald was a braver doctor than you, and for the most part I supported him in that. It isn't something personal, for once," she added with an ironic inflection in her voice and the hint of a smile, "Sometimes you ought to be a bit bolder, that's all."

He gave her a very clear look.

"I could remind you of the times when I was rather too daring," he told her, levelly, "With _you_. For you."

She had the good grace to incline her head a little, acknowledging the truth of what he said. But a moment later she was confidently in the eye again.

"But this time, a man's life is in danger," she reminded him, "This is when it really does matter. And by making the difficult choice you _will_ save him."

She always knew when to play her trump card.

"You're very certain that it will work," he pointed out flatly.

"I don't see any compelling reason why it shouldn't. I can only talk for certain about my own experience, and drawing on my experience and the best of my knowledge, I think this will; I've seen it happen. What I'm certain of is that it will not do him any good to not give him the adrenaline."

She had him in a corner, and she knew it. Her narrowed his eyes a little at her.

"You never know," she told him, after a slight pause, not without a little smugness, "We might both live to see the day when you thank me for being so insufferable."

"I've never called you that," he told her.

"You never needed to," she replied.

She got up out of her chair. He did so too, ready to escort her to the door.

As he leant past her to open the door for her, she met his eye.

"_You _can save him, Richard," she told him softly, her face very close to his, "You know you can."

And with that, she put her hand on the handle, so close to his that the outside of her hand brushed for a moment against the crook of his thumb and forefinger, and she opened the door for herself. He watched her go down the corridor, a lump in his throat and his heart beating faster, with the beginnings of a headache just emerging.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**1900**

"Nurse Crawley," he called across the ward, as stretcher was carried past them both by two soldiers, "It's starting to look like this might be a heavy day. Will you get the girls to try to find some chairs for the walking wounded, and then see if you can assist some of our resident patients into Dr. Crawley's ward to give us a bit of room in here. I'm going to start by seeing to this head injury. Oh, and could you send Dr. Crawley through to assist me?"

"Shouldn't I help you?" she replied, "That would be quicker than sending for him."

"Really, Nurse Crawley, I'd rather you helped with the chairs and finding some more beds."

"I'm not a little girl you know," she told him sharply, "You seem under the impression that I'm going to swoon at the sight of blood. Well, I'm not."

"I am perfectly aware of that," he replied.

"You never let me near the patients," she retorted, quite levelly.

"That is an utter falsehood," he stated firmly.

"Not the serious cases, just changing dressings and sorting out their pillows."

"You are yet to prove your capability in dealing with the more demanding cases, Nurse Crawley," he told her, annoyed that she was wasting his time like this.

"I'd be glad to if you would only let me," she told him angrily, "Well, if we're going to have such a heavy day, I don't mind telling you that you're going to need me, Dr. Clarkson."

He had had enough of this.

"Quite possibly," he replied, his voice obviously bored, "But, as you won't need reminding, Nurse Crawley, I give the orders here and I have asked you to send Dr. Crawley to assist me. That is therefore my final word. Now will you kindly oblige me and send your husband through."

Smarting a little, she went; leaving the ward quickly and turning the corner sharply on her heel.

…**...**

In ten minutes she was back.

"He isn't there," she told him.

"What?" he asked, distractedly, busy examining the patient's bloodied head.

"Dr. Crawley isn't in his ward," she elaborated tersely.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's absent, unaccounted for, _in absentia_, " she told him.

"Did you ask the secretary if she'd seen him?" he wanted to know, "And the ward sister?"

"I did," she replied, "Neither had."

"When did _you_ last see him?" he wanted to know.

"Back at the hotel this morning."

"Surely you came here together?"

"No, I had the driver bring me here earlier. I woke up early."

He did not dwell on this notion, though something told him that he might find himself doing so later.

"Well, where the devil is he, then?" Richard asked, quite confounded by this point that Crawley had let him down so like this. Professionally speaking, he had never been the unreliable support. The man was on active service, surely he knew, officer or not, he couldn't just go wondering off.

"That is precisely the question on my mind as well," Nurse Crawley told him, sounding equally irritated for some reason, rather than particularly worried.

"I suppose he knows he could be reported to his commanding officer?" he wondered out loud.

She gave him rather a sceptical look.

"Well, as seen as his commanding officer is you I doubt that prospect holds much menace now. But I take your point," she let out a heavy sigh, "Blasted man. I'll go and have someone sent out to look for him."

Something about their shared reaction, her scepticism and her similar irritation, softened him a little to her. Evidently she had a sense of responsibility to her job and to her patients that her husband lacked. And he was kidding himself if he thought she was not competent; in truth she could easily rival her husband in that respect too.

She started to go.

"No, wait, Nurse Crawley," he turned back to her, realising the best course of action, "I know you'll want to find your husband, that's quite natural. But would you do the great favour of assisting me hear first; and, if necessary, fulfilling his role for the rest of the shift? I'll send someone out to look." He swallowed briefly, "I really don't think I can do without you today."

Their eyes met and for a moment they stood still, looking at each other, almost sizing each other up, but with more appraisal than disdain.

"Of course I will, Doctor," she told him, "I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."

"Very well," he told her, "Here," taking his stethoscope from around his neck, he passed it to her, and she took it with an expression of mild surprise, "You'll need this. I have a spare."

…**...**

It was at least two hours before either of them got the chance to stop, though it felt like much longer. It was past six in the evening when they next had the chance to pause together, leaning over the sink together to wash their hands in the sporadic flow of tepid water. More than a few strays hair were displaced and clung to her forehead a little with exertion, and there was a rather sinister stain above the pocket of her apron. However, she had a rather tired happy look on her face, one which spoke of nearing the end of arduous tasks. His stethoscope swayed a little around her neck as she leant towards the tap.

"How are you?" he asked her quietly.

"Just about there, I think," she replied, "I've seen all of them now and treated those who needed it. I've settled any ones that I think need to stay, but there are a couple I'd like your opinion on, if that's alright?"

"Of course," he replied, nodding, and then, in quieter voice, "Any losses?"

"None," she replied happily, "Thank God."

"Quite," he replied, "Quite. Nurse Crawley," he added after a moment, "You've been invaluable today. Thank you."

She opened her mouth, about to respond but she was not able to start.

"There you both are," came a familiar voice from behind, "No wonder I couldn't find you."

Richard turned in surprise, but Isobel positively wheeled around to face her husband. What struck Richard was that Crawley appeared to be grinning at them rather idiotically, as though he too had done a gruelling but successful day's work.

"Where the hell have you been, Reginald?" Isobel asked him, with something close to venom in her voice, stepping so close to him that she was almost squaring up to him, and Richard did not blame him for looking quite alarmed. "Do you realise what we've had to deal with because of you, you useless creature?"

"Calm down, dear," Reginald told her, trying to take hold of her elbows, but Isobel would not be held on to and shook him off, folding her arms tightly across her chest, and turning her back on them both.

Reginald threw Richard what he supposed was meant to be a look of filial exasperation at this female behaviour.

"Old girl seems quite hysterical," Crawley remarked quite jollily to Richard.

Richard saw out of the corner of his eye that Isobel's shoulders tensed a little further, if that were possible, at the endearment Reginald used.

"Nevertheless, she's quite right," Richard stated firmly, "Where the devil have you been Crawley? You know you can't very well go wondering off whenever you like, and we could have used an extra pair off hands."

A contemptuous snort from Isobel's direction conveyed what an understatement that was.

"Well, if either of you will listen to me, I will tell you," Reginald told them, "I've been trying to tell you since I got here."

"Well, then?" Richard asked him.

"I've been at the Brigadier's office," he told them both, "I've been offered a commission to serve as a Captain in the force they're sending in to try and break the Boers once and for all at Mafeking. They were in need of some extra medics, and I thought, if I can be of use there-..."

Neither had noticed that Isobel had turned back around. Or that she was staring at Reginald in near disbelief.

"And what are we supposed to do here?" she demanded, "It isn't as if we've got anyone we can spare."

Richard, though in truth the exact same thought was occupying his mind as well, extended his hand politely to Crawley. In truth, it thrilled him a little to hear Isobel speak of them as "we", and he could not quite tell why.

"Congratulations, Captain Crawley," he told him.

Reginald shook his hand warmly.

"You'll find someone else, won't you?" he asked in concern, "Wouldn't like to leave you in the lurch. You'll get one of the other chaps in, won't you? Murdoch, Brown or something like that?"

Richard smiled wanly in reply.

"Yes," he replied, "Something like that."

He said it, and did not retract the statement even though, a moment later, when over Crawley's shoulder he caught the livid look in Isobel's eye as she looked at her husband's back he decided exactly what he was going to do.

…**...**

"I want you to take over your husband's ward."

Isobel had stayed with him to help scrub up and settle the patients for the night, while Reginald went back to the hotel. They stood on the front step of the hospital, close enough to the solider at the door and the light from the windows to feel safe in the rather intimidating darkness but not so close that they could be overheard, as he waited with her for the car back to the hotel.

She turned to him, looking as if she could not believe what he had just said.

"I think you more than proved yourself today," he told her by way of explanation, looking closely at the collar of her coat.

There was a pause.

"Won't you be treading on an awful lot of toes by giving it to me?" she asked, "When, as Reginald pointed out, there are an awful lot of men who would willingly do the job. He had got a point, they are doctors, and I am not."

He shook his head.

"I want you to do it. I trust you to do the job. After today I'm not quite sure that I'll ever trust Dr. Crawley's judgement again. Don't tell him I said that," he added after a moment, realising what he had just said.

She grinned at him for a moment.

"I won't," she replied, "That's an opinion I think you're entitled to after today."

"He'd never have thought of recommending you, would he?" he asked, hearing a note of bitterness in her voice.

She let out a short sigh.

"No, you're right, he wouldn't," she replied, "But neither would anyone else. Apart from you. Perhaps it's your judgement we should be doubting?" she asked, smiling, raising an eyebrow.

He let out a laugh.

"Perhaps it is, Mrs Crawley," he replied. "But will you?" he asked after a moment, "Will you do it?"

She looked up at him closely.

"You are trying to get rid of me?" she asked, "Get me out of your hair?"

From her tone of voice he could not tell if she was joking or if she was serious.

"No!" he told her emphatically, "Anything but."

"Then I'd like to do it," she told him, "If it won't get you into trouble."

"I'll swing it with the Brigadier somehow," he told her, "Make up something about it being could to have a caring feminine influence in charge. That's not what I think, personally, Mrs Crawley," he assured her, "At least that's not why I want you to be in charge. I think you're a damn good nurse," he told her in a low voice, "I think you're a prime case of why they should let women train to be doctors."

He thought he saw her flush in the light from the hospital windows.

"Then I couldn't possibly refuse, Doctor," she told him.

He was saved from whatever forward reply he was about to make next by the arrival of the car.

"I will see you tomorrow," she told him.

"Yes. Goodnight, Mrs Crawley."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	5. Chapter 5

**So, after a brief and very stressful stint as Titania, I'm back!**

**This chapter is written as a belated Happy Birthday!- to Miss Puppet. :)**

**1912**

There was a tap on the door of Richard's office, causing him to start a little. He had been off in something of a daze and the sound sharply jolted him back to the here and now. It had been a heavy day and now, at the end of it, he found himself rather tired. It was rather claustrophobicly warm under the sun pouring in through the wide glass windows.

"Come in," he called, knowing he sounded weary but not too concerned by it.

He woke, he stood up, the moment he saw who his visitor was.

Isobel came peering round the door, smiling warmly at him.

"Hello," she said to him, "I've brought someone I'd like you to meet. Is now a bad time?"

"Of course not," he told her, straightening his tie, "By all means, come in."

Her smile widened a little and just for a moment he was completely entranced. But then she stepped hurriedly aside to allow her companion into the room. Standing behind her was a young man; a head taller than she was, with her blond hair, smiling a little nervously.

"Dr. Richard Clarkson, I want you to meet my son, Matthew Crawley," she told him, looking at the young man with pride visibly beaming from her.

Richard regarded the young man as they shook hands; the last time he'd seen a photograph of him, shown to him by Isobel, he had been a boy of eighteen in his Eton school clothes, but the resemblance was still apparent. He thought that he resembled his father just a bit more than his mother but there was not much in it.

"I've been anxious to meet you, Dr. Clarkson," Matthew told him, "My mother tells me that you're old friends."

"Yes, and she's always talked about you," Richard told him, "As long as I've known her. Please, do sit down. I'll see if one of the nurses will bring us some tea."

"Don't be silly, Richard, I'll make the tea," Isobel told him, "Don't bother them with it at this time of the day. You two get to know each other, I'll be back in a moment."

She left quickly, closing the door behind her and Richard was left with Matthew regarding him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Clarkson," Matthew told him politely, his tone quite friendly, "But I can't honestly tell you that my mother ever mentioned you before we moved here. At least, I can't remember her ever saying anything when I was a child or-..."

"We didn't know each other when you were that young," Richard told him, "We met during the South African War. I knew your father at medical school, though."

Matthew nodded his understanding.

"I had gone to university by the time my parents came back," he replied.

"Yes, I know. Your mother told me," Richard told him. There was a pause for a moment. "Mr. Crawley, I hope you don't mind me telling you and I don't know if you know; she was so proud of your decision to read law."

Matthew gave him a rather sheepish smile, a glimmer in his eye quite like the one which so often dwelt in Isobel's.

"I know it would have pleased my father a great deal more if I'd chosen to read medicine," he replied, "Tough it was plain for all to see that I wasn't cut out to be a medic."

"Yes, I think it would," Richard agreed, "And that was why your mother was so pleased. She said that now she knew for definite you could think for yourself. She was very proud of you."

They exchanged a brief smile, both thinking how very Isobel that sentiment was.

"My mother and father did not always see eye to eye," Matthew commented, "I was aware of it even then."

Richard nodded.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the reason she was so pleased about your decision was to spite your father just a little," he remarked, without really thinking about it.

But Matthew smiled nonetheless.

"Yes," he replied, "She does take her victories rather seriously. Not that she lauds it over you exactly, she would never dream of doing that, but-... I can't quite explain. You may see for yourself what I mean if she keeps clashing with Cousin Violet, which seems rather inevitable by now."

"Yes, I know what you mean," Richard told him, "I can't quite explain it either."

They fell into silence for a few moments.

"Mr. Crawley, I hope you won't mind if I ask you rather a personal question?"

"By all means," Matthew replied, his expression one of mild curiosity.

"You said your parents were rather prone to clashing. Were they any more so when they came back from South Africa?"

Matthew continued to regard him questioningly, and Richard thought he ought to offer some explanation for this very forward question.

"I only meant that they saw, we all did, some terrible things in South Africa. I was wondering- that is to say, I hope it didn't- if it affected them at all as a pair? We were all surprised at your father's decision to bring his wife with him, you see."

"Yes, I see, I supposed you would have been," Matthew replied, "I don't suppose I noticed that it did, but then I was up at Oxford most of the time. I only returned to live at home with Mother when Father fell ill, and I don't suppose you'd expect things to be the same then as before."

"Quite," Richard agreed, "Of course. I only wondered. I had no wife myself, I have no similar experience to compare it with."

The door opened, and Isobel was back with the tea, which she placed on the desk in the middle of them.

"What have you both been talking about?" she asked them.

"Not much," Matthew replied quickly, obviously sensitive to the fact that Richard would not want her to know that he had been asking questions like that, "How you met each other. You crossing swords with Cousin Violet."

"I'm not crossing swords with anyone," she insisted, pouring out the tea and opening a window to let some air into the stifling room before taking the seat beside her son, "It's just she does seem determined to beat me to death before giving me the chance to speak. I've very little choice, really."

The two men briefly exchanged an amused look, which she thankfully chose to overlook.

"Well, I have news on that score at any rate," Richard told them both.

"Oh?" Isobel asked, "On the Cousin Violet score?"

"Yes," Richard replied, "His Lordship would like to offer you the position of Chairman of the Hospital Board. His Lordship wanted to consult with you, Mr. Crawley, but with all respect to you, sir, you said yourself you are no medic, and I hardly think your mother needs your permission to fulfil the post."

"Quite right," Matthew agreed.

He watched Isobel's face, for a sign that he had said too much but none came. Her mouth only twitched a little in amusement at his words, and her eyes lingered on the corner of his desk.

There was a quiet pause between the three of them.

"I'm afraid it is a voluntary position, and there is no salary attached," Richard continued.

"That doesn't matter," she replied swiftly.

Richard nodded briefly.

"But there would be the chance of having an office here in the hospital, should you want it."

Isobel nodded again in reply.

"Would I still be able to assist with nursing?" she wanted to know.

"Of course," he replied. He did not add that, having grown accustomed to her help, he had found it difficult to go without her today.

"Then, I would like to accept the position," she told him.

There was another pause.

"Does this mean I will be your superior, Richard?" she asked him, an unmistakeable smile on her lips, her eyebrow playfully raised.

"Mother!" Matthew murmured a little crossly.

Richard smiled. He knew she was only teasing him, and it did not upset him in the slightest.

"In a sense, yes, Mrs Crawley," he replied, "But I remind you that we remain equals when we are at the hospital."

They weren't, strictly speaking, as the doctor, he outranked her easily as a nurse. But they _were_ equals, really. Certain things meant that they were _always___equals, and always would be.

She nodded.

"Of course. How the times have changed," she remarked wryly, "Yes, you're right," she added, with a small touch of glee, "Cousin Violet is going to be furious about this."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for your reviews so far, I really do love getting feedback. I really hope this chapter is alright. **

She was standing, leaning over a chart on the table at the end of her ward when he found her. They were both here later than they ought to have been; darkness had fallen outside and the oil lamps by the patients' beds had been lit. A murmur of men finishing off their suppers and settling down for the night ran around the room. She looked at ease here, like she belonged. He approached her quietly, thinking that she had not noticed him, but as drew just close enough to her to read the chart over her shoulder she turned her head slightly in his direction and spoke.

"Checking up on me?" she asked, a smile on her lips.

"No," he replied hastily, "Well, in a way. Seeing if you're alright. Not that I doubted you would be."

She straightened up a little, taking the weights of the chart so it rolled back up on the table.

"I'm tired," she told him, resting her hands in the small of her back.

"You're here late," he reminded her.

"No later than you," she returned, "Reginald says that I would stay in the hospital all day and all night if he didn't make me come home. I'm beginning to think he's right."

"You must be finished here by now?" he asked her.

"Yes, just about."

"Get your coat, then, I'll take you home. Well, back to the hotel."

"Yes, alright," she told him.

He met her on the steps ten minutes later.

"Have you heard from your husband?" he asked her politely, as he gave her a hand up into his car.

"No," she replied, waiting for him to get in the other side. "I'm not really expecting to, to tell you the truth."

There was something ominous in her tone that made him pause before he drove off. He turned to look at her face in the darkness, and saw vague traces of anguish there.

"What is it, Nurse Crawley?" he asked.

There was a brief pause, and when she spoke she sounded as if she were unsure of something, perhaps as if she was frightened of sounding foolish.

"They've given him a gun," she told him, "A rifle. I saw it before he left. He was supposed to be going as a medic but he seems to be going there as more of a soldier."

"You know they'd issue a gun to anyone going to the front line?" he told her gently, "It's a matter of self-defence."

"Yes, but he's a doctor. He's supposed to heal people not shoot them."

She caught the smile on his lips, and sniffed a little, knowing how naïve she sounded.

"Now you think I sound silly. Reginald thought so too," she told him, "He didn't know why I was making such a fuss."

"No," he replied earnestly, "I just think you're far too idealistic for a place like this. I'd hate it to spoil you."

There was a brief pause, and she wiped her nose on her handkerchief, and he revved the engine, pulling the car away from the pavement and onto the road.

"But you're managing alright back at the hotel without him?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes, fine," she replied, "I'm hardly ever there to notice, and I'm always busy at work."

"That's good," he told her, "I'd hate to think you were lonely there."

"Oh, no, not in that hotel," she replied wryly, "There are people everywhere. Army people mainly. I think that's where Reginald got the idea of going to the front line from, he liked the look of the uniforms and the shiny boots, and the guns."

There was a familiar bitter edge to her voice, and he could not tell if it was directed towards the army or her husband. He kept his eyes on the road and did not pursue this line of enquiry.

"They're giving a dance there, aren't they?" he asked after a few moments, " The army people. Next week. For the officers."

"Yes, they are," she replied, "It sounds quite a nice affair, actually. It's just a pity that my officer has conveniently whisked himself away to Mafeking."

There was quiet for a moment.

"You could go with another officer," he suggested lightly.

"Yes, but who wo- oh!" she stopped abruptly, smiling at him, "You're offering to escort me, aren't you?"

"I don't see that it would do either of us any harm," he surmised vaguely, "Like you say, you've been working a lot lately, it would do you good to enjoy yourself for an evening."

He saw her out of the corner of his eye biting back a smile, and he turned his head briefly towards her, giving her a questioning look.

"What?" he asked her.

"There isn't a Mrs. Clarkson, back in England?" she asked, "Whose nose I'd be putting terrbily out of joint?"

He smiled weakly at her, his eyes returning to the road.

"No such good fortune, I'm afraid," he told her.

There was a short pause.

"Reginald wouldn't mind terribly, would he?" he asked, thinking that she might have been trying to tell him something with that last remark.

"No, I don't think so," she replied without great concern, "If he did, I could always say it was his fault for leaving me."

He made no remark. He wanted to ask her if this was genuine resentment or if she was just missing her husband, but he did not dare and doubted that she would answer him even if he did. It was none of his business, really. He had no business to be asking questions like that. It had nothing to do with him.

"I'd like to," she told him moments later, into the darkness and the silence.

"You'd like to what?" he asked, jolted out of his own thoughts.

He suspected that he just escaped an eye roll.

"I'd like to go to the dance with you," she told him, smiling at him.

"Oh," he replied, "I see."

"If you haven't changed your mind?" she asked.

"No, of course not. I look forward to it."

He saw her smile again as she turned her head to look out of the window into the night.

"Good," she told him.

…**...**

It had been a good while since he'd had occasion to wear his tailcoat. He hoped very much that he didn't look a fool as he stood there at the foot of the stairs in the hotel lobby, waiting for her. _Waiting for another man's wife_, he thought. But he soon shook the thought from his mind. He and Isobel were not like that. They were friends, just as he and Reginald were friends. It was important to keep that in mind at all times.

There was a hum of activity and the beginnings of music in the lobby. Officers and their dancing partners were migrating down from the rooms and towards the ball room in a tide of red and black, interspersed with ladies in white dresses. The men certainly outnumbered the women here, and yet he was struck at the number of ladies who were present. Surely not all these men had brought their wives with them, and he suspected quite a few of the girls here were nurses from the hospital in their best frocks, having been approached by officers who they hardly knew who did not want to face the function alone. He had to be honest, he had never really noticed many women in South Africa before now. Isobel was the only one he paid an extended degree of attention to.

And it was then that he noticed her, standing there at the top of the stairs, her eyes combing the lobby for him. Their gazes met, and she smiled at the sight of him waiting for her. She was wearing white like everyone else, but somehow she was so very different to every other woman in the room. Her dress seemed to fit her better, embellished with a delicate white lace, holding her frame so gently and quite flatteringly; tapering in at her narrow waist; her sleeves stopping short to show her slender arms, her gloves just brushing the top of her elbow. She had not chosen to wear any jewels like others had, but wore a single string of pearls at her throat. Her fair hair was held loosely in its usual knot. Her eyes were shining a little as she looked at him, descending the stairs towards him. She was truly beautiful, he thought; extraordinary and still so like her ordinary self. She was always beautiful. So very beautiful, all of the time, now, at the hospital...-

He was spared the need to quell these treacherous thoughts by her arrival at the foot of the stairs with him. They exchanged a brief smile, him taking her hand in his and kissing her knuckles briefly, unable to move his eyes away from hers. He wanted to turn her hand over, place a kiss in the gentle cave of her palm, slip his hands to her elbow, removed her glove and touch her fingers properly. He wanted-... what he wanted almost overwhelmed him. She had a white flower in her hair.

"Am I presentable?" she asked him with a small, half-shy smile.

He didn't think he could speak.

"Yes," he managed to choke out, "Quite presentable."

She slipped her arm gently through his.

"Should we go through?" she asked him.

He nodded, and lead her through into the ballroom.

…**...**

"Isobel! Isobel Turnbull!"

They both turned at the voice close behind them. She stood up.

"Walter!" she exclaimed, seeing the man who stood behind them, "I'm amazed you recognised me. How are you?"

"I can't complain," he told her, "I'm just surprised to see you here. But then mother said you'd married a doctor, I suppose you're over with him?"

"Yes," she replied happily, "I am."

"I suppose this is him?" Walter asked, turning to Richard, hovering at Isobel's elbow to be introduced, extending his hand, "How do you do?"

Isobel's mouth had fallen open a little.

"No, Walter, I'm afraid not. Reginald's at the front line at Mafeking. This is one of his old friends from medical school, Dr. Richard Clarkson. He's been kind enough to escort me here in Reginald's absence. Richard, this is Walter Atkinson. He was good friends with my brother Edward at school."

Richard extended his hand to Walter.

"How do you do?" he asked courteously, feeling himself still a little flushed.

"Very well, thank you," Walter told him, "I say, I am sorry about-..."

"It doesn't matter, Walter," Isobel told him, "Come and sit down with us."

Walter took the seat in between them.

"But your husband is a doctor too?" Walter asked.

"Yes," she replied, with a sigh, "I think he's a doctor, Walter."

There was a silence between them.

"Forgive me," Walter asked after a moment, "But surely you know if he is or he isn't?"

Isobel gave him a look. Richard had the feeling her mind was elsewhere, and that this was a topic, a question that she did not feel like pursuing. He had the feeling that her mind was still preoccupied with the idea of Reginald fighting. He thought he would save her the trouble of answering Walter's question.

"He _is _a doctor, Walter," Richard told him, "But I expect his hospital is a little different to mine."

"Well, that's only natural, at the front," Walter replied, "What can you expect?"

Isobel said nothing.

"To tell you the truth, I rather envy the chaps out there," Walter continued, "There isn't much for an army man like myself to do around here now that all of the action seems to be over."

"You could always go home," Isobel suggested coolly, "They seem to transfer any officer who asks for it."

Richard suspected she wasn't really in the mood for talking about fighting. Or the front line. Or Reginald.

"So you think most of the fighting is over in these parts?" Richard asked him.

"I'm afraid so," he replied.

There was another silence.

"Isobel," Walter addressed her now, "I don't suppose you feel like a dance? I couldn't manage to get a girl to come with me, and I haven't been on the floor all evening."

She gave him a weak smile.

"Sorry, Walter," she told him, "I don't feel much like it."

She stood up.

"I'll be back in a moment," she told them both, leaving and weaving her way across the room.

…**...**

He found her about quarter of an hour later, having shaken off Walter.

"Do you feel like dancing yet?" he asked her, offering his hand, "Or are you going to bite my head off too?"

She rolled her eyes openly at him this time and gave him a wry smile; taking his hand and letting him lead her towards the floor.

"Did you get rid of him?" she asked him as he rested his hand carefully on her waist and they began to dance.

"Yes," he assured her, "He found some chaps he seemed to know from the mess and I left him to it. I never seem to be able to get on with army fellows."

"I'm not sure I'd call that a failing," Isobel told him. "I don't know what it is," she continued after a moment, "It might be something in the air out here that turns all men into aspiring warlords. I hate it."

His hand squeezed just a fraction on her waist.

"I don't aspire to anything like that," he murmured, trying to reassure her.

She looked at him, smiling gently, sadly.

"Exception that proves the rule," she told him quietly, "You aren't like the rest of them, Richard."

He opened his mouth a fraction, but she headed him off.

"I don't know what I mean by that. Don't ask me."

"Alright," he told her, "I won't."

They danced on, swaying gently to the music, moving at half time compared to everyone else on the floor, but completely oblivious to that fact.

"I don't know what it is," she continued, "Something about the people here. It makes me hate them all. It makes me hate the world." Her eyes lowered and she smiled sadly. She was so beautiful. So sad and beautiful, "You'll say it's because I'm too idealistic," she commented wryly.

"No," he told her in reply. "Because I feel the same way too. Or maybe I'm just idealistic as well, really."

She laughed briefly, and it heartened him to see her smile even only for seconds.

"Have you had enough?" he asked her, "Should we call it a night?"

"Yes, I think I have," she told him, "But it was very kind of you to bring me."

"It was my pleasure," her replied quietly.

"Should we finish this dance?" she asked him.

"Yes, I don't see why not."

And they danced on, in silence, him holding her gently, trying to comfort her amidst all of this war and hate. The sad, wonderful smile lingered on her lips, and he knew their eyes did not leave each other once until the end of the song.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I know it's a bit slow-going at the moment but I promise you this is leading somewhere; it most definitely is leading somewhere. In meantime, I'd really appreciate a review to keep me going. **

She invited him over for dinner.

"Matthew's going up to the big house tomorrow night," she had told him quite casually, as she was leaving his office at the end of the day, "I don't suppose you'd fancy coming around for some supper?"

He caught her eye, saw the gentle perhaps a little nervous look there, and smiled. It made him very glad indeed that they were true to their word, and were being friends, _proper_ friends.

"I'd like to," he replied, "What time?"

"Oh, any time you like after seven o'clock," she replied, and left shortly after.

Now, he stood before her front door, holding a bunch of lilies. He had his tailcoat on- he only owned one and only ever used it for dinners up at the abbey. It never bothered him when he was at the big house, but now he found himself wondering if he was smart enough. There was quite a difference; being smart enough for a family with whom he was on cordial terms but cared for only in so far as was really necessary and being smart enough for Isobel. It was quarter past seven. No one could complain that he was early. He rang the bell.

The answer was prompt. He was surprised to find Isobel on the other side of the door, not Molesley.

"Answering your own door?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow and grinning to show that he was joking.

"It won't kill me, just this once," she replied, "I'm not as grand as you think I am."

"I don't think your grand," he told her, stepping inside and letting her put his hat and gloves on the side table, hanging up his coat himself.

She gave him a look, questioning his wording.

"I didn't mean it like that," he told her, "You're perfectly... ," he did not know what to say, "You're you," he told her, struggling for words and knowing he probably sounded very foolish, "You could never be too grand. You're _you."_

She laughed a little, her light and young laugh that rang clearly in his ears, that he loved so much.

"I knew what you meant, Richard," she told him, "Don't worry. Come through. Dinner shouldn't be long."

He followed her down the corridor. He had not been inside Crawley House for years. She had been right when she said her maid had done wonders fixing the place up, it was much brighter than he remembered, there seemed to be more space. She walking a little way ahead of him, her long purple dress floating a little in her wake, her hair loosely and less formally held up than she did for everyday wear.

"You look beautiful," he told her, and when she- taken aback- said nothing in reply for a moment, added, "Now, that's better than being grand, isn't it?"

She laughed at that too.

"Yes, Richard," she replied, "I'd say it's infinitely better. Especially coming from you."

…**...**

"Mrs Bird is a very good cook," he told her, finishing the last of his supper.

"Yes, I'm very happy with her," she replied, "It's strange how one gets used to things, we got by on so little in Manchester, and now I don't know what we'd do without Molesley."

"Were things difficult back in Manchester?" he asked her, concern rising immediately in him, "Once Reginald died?"

Hearing his tone of voice, she met his eyes.

"You're talking about money," she surmised, "No, things were never difficult in that way, we were left with plenty. I mean we managed without many servants, that's all."

There was a laden pause; one which, inevitably, she could read entirely.

"What do you want to ask me, Richard?" she asked softly, "You of all people must be able to ask me anything."

He reddened a little, a little embarrassed by the way she could read him implicitly.

"Were you..." he asked, "Were you lonely? After he'd gone?"

"Do you mean, did I take another lover?" she asked quietly, looking him straight in the face, her voice low, unembarrassed and bold.

"No!" he insisted, colouring furiously, but could not quite substantiate that remark. In a way, he _had _been asking that.

"It's alright," she assured him, "I don't mind. In a way, I think you've the right to ask. The right to be curious, at least. And no, I didn't. I didn't want to. You were my only one."

The cutlery seemed to clink poignantly as she set down her own knife and fork, and her ring chimed a little as she picked up her glass of wine.

"You were mine," he responded softly, looking at the tablecloth.

They were quiet for a few moments.

"I wasn't _really _lonely," she told him, "Perhaps it's cold of me to say that, but I wasn't. In truth, I felt much worse in those early days in Africa before we-... well, _before. _And things were never quite the same when we came back. Well, you wouldn't expect them to be. How could they ever be?"

"I ruined your marriage," he murmured quietly, picking up his wine glass, taking a deep drink, feeling like the worst person alive.

"Don't say that, Richard. One person can't ruin a marriage, especially not from the outside. I'm as much to blame as you are, and I don't think Reginald was entirely innocent. It came out after he died that he'd still kept up with one of the girls he used to know before me. Kept up rather well with her."

"Oh," Richard muttered, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she told him, "I don't mean it to excuse my behaviour- I knew nothing about it at the time. And I did him just as much wrong as he did me," she reminded him pointedly.

_We were different_, he nearly said,_ we were in love. _But he didn't. He couldn't; particularly when the feeling was ever increasingly growing in him that-...

"I wasn't lonely," she repeated, affirming it, "In fact, I did a few things I wouldn't dared to have done while he was still alive."

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I went on a suffragette march," she confided in him, a tiny gleam in her eye, "In 1906. I went all the way down to London for it."

"And what was that like?" he asked, suitably impressed.

"Well, I never did it again," she replied, smiling, "I must say, I think it's rather against my nature to go punch policemen."

"You'd rather let someone else do it and be there to bandage them up afterwards?" he asked.

"Well, actually, I would."

He laughed.

"I'm exactly the same," he told her.

"I know," she replied.

There was quiet for a moment.

"I wasn't alone," she told him firmly, "I had Matthew."

"I'm glad," he told her, "I'm glad you have him. He seems to do right by you."

"Oh, he does," she told him, "He has a very strong sense of what he ought to be doing, and he always tries his best to do it."

"I wonder where he got that from?" he asked lightly.

"I'd say it was from me, if I was talking to anyone but you," she told him, a note of sadness in her voice, "You know me too well. You know I'm not all good."

"Isobel," he murmured, "Don't say that. No one is all good, if there's one thing I know for certain it's that. And you are the very best of people, Isobel. I really mean that."

She looked at him.

"Thank you for saying that, Richard," she told him, "It means a lot."

There was quiet.

"I wish you'd written to me," she told him after a moment, "I know I said I wasn't lonely. But I still wish you'd written."

"I was frightened," he told her weakly.

The way they sat, everything-... Their hands seemed to reach towards each other as they lay on the table. But not quite touching.

"I know you were," she replied, "And I understand. But just think," she added, sounding almost unsure herself now, "If you had written, I'd be a lot more sure where I stand with you now."

"What do you mean?" he asked, "We're friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we are," she replied, "But, I-..."

"What?" he asked her, anxious to know what she had been about to say.

"Never mind," she told him, obviously having thought better of it, "Forget I said anything."

But he could not forget, and it was that moment his mind wandered back to as he left her house, the way she had broken off and left her thought, her thought about _them_, unfinished.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you so much for your reviews for the last chapter, they were wonderful and it was so nice to hear what you all think and that you do want more. So here is more.**

**1900**

"Nurse Crawley," he could only stick his head around the door into her ward and call for her, regrettably he was too busy at this precise moment in time for good manners, "Could you come through here a minute? I need your help."

"Can't it wait a moment?" she called back, "I'll just be second. I'm in the middle of something."

He loitered in the doorway, waiting for her, partly out of a semblance of politeness, partly to make her hurry up a little.

"Sorry," he told her once she joined him, wiping her hands hurriedly on her apron, "It's just we really do seem to be at our wit's end in here."

"We're much the same," she replied, "But I will try to help you first."

"This is madness," he told her ruefully, in a low voice so as not to be overheard, "It's happening because of what's going on at Mafeking," he conveyed, "Things are really heating up there, by all accounts, so they're clearing the casualties out of there as quickly as possible and they all seem to be ending up in either your ward or mine."

Isobel let out a heavy sigh and, despite their business and the frantic activity around them, turned her body in a little towards him as if they were the only people in the room, looking up at his face with an expression of open honesty, creating an unmistakeable air of confidence between the two of them. It made him almost want to draw in a deep breath to steady himself, but she spoke before he had the chance.

"I wish my esteemed husband would come home," she told him, sounding more cold than wistful. His heart seemed to judder a little, hearing her say those words which he had been so convinced were untrue, until a moment later she added, "I feel as if he's really left us in the lurch."

He bowed his head a little, knowing there was an immediate need for him to make sure she was fit to work, but also wanting badly to comfort her. It did not matter how much her words had disconcerted him.

"It'll be alright," he told her quietly, "He'll be fine. He'll come back."

She gave him a look that he could not read; he did not know whether it was a thanks or a look of frustration at him deliberately misunderstanding her. The problem was he truly did not know if she was really angry with Reginald or if this was just her way of hiding how worried she was about him, that was what it all boiled down to. But this was definitely not the time; there was work to be done.

"Are you alright?" he asked her firmly.

She sniffed, and nodded swiftly.

"Yes," she told him, "Of course."

"Well, let's get to work, then," he told her, "We'll have a chat later."

…**...**

He found her in his office at the end of the day. Strictly speaking, she was there uninvited, but he didn't mind a bit. It was nice to see her at last, after hours of frantic, concentrated work. He looked at her for a second, her arms spread out so she could lean forwards against his desk, her apron discarded on the back of the chair. She had pulled her brown-blond hair down out of its pins and it fell down her back. She looked utterly exhausted. He had never seen her like this before, and something about it both touched him and made his weary heart race a little. He had never seen her look so close to being undone before.

Her head rose a little as she realised he was there. She stared straight ahead with an expression of such tiredness, but such weary good humour that at first he did not know what to make of it at all. It heartened him a little, though, that her tiredness seemed to be purely physical.

"I feel like I did after giving birth," she told him casually, "Damn and blast the lot of them."

"Who?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, everyone!" she replied, "The Boers, the English, and everyone in between. I've had enough of them."

He could not help but laugh; truth be told, he was in such a weary state himself that he did not really know what to do.

"It's over," he reminded her, leaning his weight a little on the other end of the desk, "We can both have a rest now."

"Until the next time," she reminded him, "In twelve hours we're going to have to do all that again."

Richard let out a long sigh.

"I think it would be best if we cross that bridge when we come to it."

She managed a wearied giggle, but a second later her brow creased in a frown.

"I'm so tired," she told him in a weak voice.

"By all means, sit down," he told her.

She did not need telling twice, sinking almost immediately into the chair where she had draped her apron.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked her.

"Yes," she answered immediately, looking only mildly surprised when he bent down and got his treasured bottle of whiskey that he had stashed away in the little cupboard in his desk along with two glasses.

"Thank you," she told him, accepting the glass from him.

As she drank, he allowed the liquid to slosh into his own glass for a little longer. He could not escape the fact, the steadily recurring thought, that in her weakened state she had come _here_, to him. She hadn't minded him seeing her like this; she had quite possibly wanted him to be there for her. His hand shook a little on the glass as he finished it in two gulps. He did not notice that she was looking up at him with something akin to admiration.

"I'm more used to it than you are," he reminded her, presuming that her astonishment was due to his efficiency in polishing off the alcohol.

"So much is obvious," she replied, smiling, as he sank down to sit on the desk. His legs relaxed, and rested near where her arm hung loosely over the arm of the chair.

There was quiet for a few minutes as she drank her whiskey.

"I don't feel able to cope," she confided in him finally.

"You're doing an admirable job," he told her, "Really, Isobel, you are," he insisted as she opened her mouth again, "I doubt many qualified doctors could do the job you're doing at the moment."

"I'm not talking about me personally," she told him, "I mean the whole unit, the whole hospital. We're critically under-staffed, Richard? Richard," she repeated sharply, as his eyes wandered under criticism, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he insisted, "I am listening."

"And do you think we're coping?" she asked him, "Honestly?"

"I admit that we're stretched," he told her reluctantly, "But it won't be for much longer. It can't be. Things will change. If the army break through at Mafeking there'll be a massive relief for us as well."

She tilted her head a little to the side.

"And if they don't?" she questioned, her voice admirably light and gently curious even given the seriousness of what she was asking.

"If they don't then understaffed wards are the least of our troubles," he answered, "I try not to think about it."

She laughed at that.

"Idealist," she accused him, giggling into her glass as she swallowed the last of her drink.

"No," he replied, "That doesn't make me an idealist," he explained, "That makes me a blind optimist."

She laughed again, slumping back into the chair.

"Oh, Richard-..."

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted, her eyes a little confused, "I've no idea. I'm so tired. What on earth are we going to do?"

"Pray for relief at Mafeking," he told her, "It's all we can do."

She nodded weakly.

"Yes," she murmured, running her finger around the edge of her glass, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Would you like another drink?" he asked her, "It'll help you sleep."

"I'm not going to need any help sleeping," she assured him, "But go on."

He poured them both another drink.

"I'm exhausted," she told him after a while, "But I don't want to go back to the hotel."

He did not say anything, waiting for her to explain that one for herself.

She sniffed sadly.

"Don't want to be alone, I suppose."

"I would offer you a place at my flat," he told her, "But-..."

"Yes, Richard, I understand that you can't. Married woman alone with you and all of that. I do understand. But thank you."

Dear God, he thought, she had no idea what she was doing, making suggestions about things like that! But then it had been him who had offered... She had only said that she did not want to be alone; it had been him and only him who had imagined taking her into his flat. His bed, holding her in the dark, pressing his face in her long undone hair-...

"Richard," she told him, "You're off in a dream. You're going to fall off that desk if you don't watch out."

"Sorry," he said, straightening himself out a little, "Thank you. Perhaps I'm as tired as you are."

"I think what we both need is-..."

"Home?" he finished for her.

"Yes, home, I think," she told him, starting to get up, "I can't go out like this," she said, indicating to her hair, "I'll just sort myself out."

Her hairpins lay in a neat line before her on the desk.

"Here," he told her, picking up a pin as she bundled her hair up on top of her head, holding it in place with one hand, "Will you let me help you?"

"Alright," she replied, "Go on."

With careful hands, he slipped the pin into her fair hair, letting it hold. Her was soft underneath his fingers and clean and smelled beautiful. He was sorely tempted to press his face a little closer to her hair, inhale fully, bury his face in the softness. His eyes fell shut, his heart was racing. He shouldn't be doing this, he was supposed to be helping her.

"Richard?" he voice sounded a touch uncertain.

He realised his hands had left her hair and were reaching gently upon her shoulders.

He was about to reply when the door flew open. They both wheeled around to see who was there.

"How many times, Nurse Patterson?" he asked angrily, "Knock!"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Clarkson, Nurse Crawley," the girl stammered, "But I thought you ought to know. There's been a wire through from Mafeking."

"What?" Isobel asked sharply, suddenly alert, "What's happened?"

"The siege has been broken," she told them, "We've taken the town. The Boers are retreating."

"When did this come through?" Richard asked her.

"About half an hour ago," she replied.

"And do the others know?"

"Oh, yes. You're the last ones. They're all ecstatic. They're all down at the mess celebrating."

"I feel like I could now," he exclaimed, turning to Isobel in excitement, forgetting how tired they both were, "Do you want to go?"

She smiled.

"For a little while maybe. Thank you, Nurse Patterson."

The young nurse nodded and retreated, leaving them alone. Their eyes met and they beamed at each other.

"Oh, Richard," she exclaimed, and all of a sudden she was in his arms, hugging him tightly to her, "This is wonderful! We're going to have our hospital back!"

He could do nothing except hold her in return, forcing himself to smile a little, so their cheeks bumped gently into one another.

"Yes," he agreed.

He decided not to mention that it also meant her husband would be coming back. He would not spoil her happiness by bringing it up.

But his voice must have given him away. She pulled back a little, looking at him.

"You're not happy," she stated, "What is it? What could possibly be wrong about this?"

He did not know what to say.

"I-..."

"Oh," she seemed to have realised without having to be told, "Richard, I don't know what to say."

His arms were still around her, he realised, and he released her quickly.

"You don't have to say anything," he assured her, "It's my fault."

He looked down at the floor in shame, but the were standing so close together than he could not do so without seeing her too.

"It isn't you fault," she insisted, "It's not your fault at all. Oh, Richard, you don't have to let go of me, Richard..."

She seemed at a loss for words, and he was about to raise his head and speak, when a moment later he felt her hands on his face, raising his head to look at her. They stared at each other for long moments, before her face moved closer to his, and she sank her lips firmly yet so gently against his.

For a moment he did not know what to do, and stood there frozen. And then he realised what was happening. Isobel Crawley was kissing him. Kissing him, tasting of whiskey and kissing him, and undeterred by his shock-... She wanted this. She had been thinking about this too. He kissed her back, gathering her back up in his arms, pressing her close to him. He felt her tongue lick across his lips and he groaned, letting her slip her tongue inside his mouth. God, this woman-... She was going to be the death of him. His hands wandered to her waist, holding her gently as their tongues explored each other's mouths, her arms hooked around his neck.

Finally, they broke apart.

"We should go."

"Yes," she replied, a little ruefully, "We probably should."

Their eyes met for a moment, and he made no move to stop her when she reached up and briefly pressed her lips to his once more.

"Don't worry about Reginald," she told him, "Just... don't worry."

"Alright," he told her, "I won't."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	9. Chapter 9

**As I've told a few of you, I' not sure if you're going to be delighted or driven mad by this chapter. Thank you so much for your reviews.**

**1912**

"I enjoyed myself the other night," he told her, approaching her a little tentatively as she stood out at her desk, sorting out a box of various bottles.

She gave him a quick smile in reply.

"That's good," she told him, "Thank you for saying so."

He cleared his throat a little before going on.

"I was wondering if you'd allow me to reciprocate?"

"Goodness," she turned to him properly this time, giving a little laugh, "You're formal today, Richard."

"You won't think me formal when you hear what I'm proposing."

That certainly did get her attention, and she raised an eyebrow at him; waiting for him to explain himself and his rather extraordinary remark.

"Sorry," he told her, "I don't think I meant wh-..."

She laughed.

"No, I'm sure you didn't," she assured him, "Sorry, Richard, do go on."

"There's a fair coming to the village this week," he told her, "I thought we could walk down together one evening, get a bite to eat... It could be fun. And my house is a rather humble and untidy affair at the moment."

"There's no need for you to be embarrassed about that. I've made do with your humble and untidy affairs before," she reminded him.

He felt himself colour a little, remembering, but she quickly saved him by continuing;

"But you're right, it does sound like fun. Yes, can we go?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm.

"Of course," he replied, "Which night would suit you?"

"Well, tomorrow I'm up at the Abbey having dinner, but on Wednesday Matthew's going to go up alone, without me."

"Wednesday it is, then."

…**...**

He picked her up from her house on Wednesday, and they walked the short distance to the fair together. It was a pleasant evening, just beginning to grow dark, and when they reached the village green where the fair had settled there were lanterns and bunting strung in the tree to keep the place bright.

"This is lovely," she remarked, looking around, "I'm glad we came, aren't you? You do have good ideas, Richard."

He said nothing, but offered his arm to her to hold on to. She smiled and accepted.

"Should we go and find a table and sit down?" he asked her, "We could have something to eat and watch the fire-juggler."

"Yes, in a little while," she answered, "But I want to go on the helter-skelter first."

He looked at her and saw that she was in earnest. He gave her arm the gentlest of squeezes.

"Just don't go rushing into anything you'll regret later," he warned her.

She burst out laughing.

"It's a slide, not a battlefield," she told him, "You aren't going to stop me, are you?" she asked, a flicker in her eye.

"Of course not," he replied, "I know better than that. I'll evening give you the sixpence to go on it, if you like."

She smiled.

"Will you really?" she teased him.

"Of course," he insisted, "I've never been one to say one thing and then do another."

"Alright," she replied, "Let's go then."

…**...**

"I can't believe that beastly man wouldn't let me on the helter skelter!" she exclaimed in irritation, sinking into a chair a little trestle table they had found.

He gave her rather a wary look, following her carrying two glasses of hot punch and two large slices of cake.

"He did say it was for children only," he reminded her.

"Even so, I was willing to pay," she replied crossly, "Or moreover, you were willing to pay for me," she corrected herself. Even telling him that my son was the future Earl of Grantham didn't work!"

He smiled at her indulgently, spotting her rather endearing little pout.

"It's alright," he told her, passing her food and added, with a glimmer in his eye, "Be a good girl and I'll by you a balloon when we've eaten."

"Sorry," she apologised, "You're right, I am behaving like a six year old," she took a sip of her punch and smiled at him over her glass, "I think you've got me a little bit over-excited, Richard Clarkson."

He smiled in reply, tough his ears seemed to be reddening furiously.

"That's alright," he told her, "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

"Yes, I am rather," she replied, "I haven't had this much fun in ages. I don't suppose I do a lot just to have fun, really. Dinner up at the big house is all well enough but it's all very stuffy and restrained."

"Yes, I find that too, rather," he agreed.

"This is very good cake," she remarked, taking a bite of hers, "Sometimes, when I'm in London, I'll take a day to go round the galleries, and the parks, and I always enjoy that very much. But I'm generally alone. It's much better to go out when you're with someone."

"Yes," he agreed again, "Well, it rather depends on who that someone is but... at the moment, yes, it's better to be with someone than alone."

She beamed at him across the table, understanding him implicitly in spite of his round about way of putting things.

"You know, I would like to see where you live," she told him, "I assure you, there's nothing you need to be embarrassed about with me. Anyway, I'm curious. I've deliberately resisted having a snoop around there so that you could show me yourself."

Her honesty made him smile.

"Alright," he told her, "We could have a walk back there on our way home, if you like. But the place is nothing to get excited about. It's nothing special."

She gave him a look that told him that she would be the best judge of that.

"Yes, I'd like that," she replied, "That sounds very nice."

…**...**

The darkness had set over the village by the time they set off in the direction of Richard's house. The air was cooler, but not much. Somewhere, something had changed between them, just slightly, and rather than simply enjoying themselves, they were talking about the past now, again.

She looked over at him.

"When he died it was a terrible blow," she told him casually, but completely seriously.

He nodded.

"Of course it would have been," he replied gravely, his hands behind his back.

She smiled at him.

"Oh, Richard, how good of you to try to understand," she told him, "But it wasn't how you think it was."

"Oh?"

"You see, I had spent so much of my life being furious with Reginald, I mean really furious. It waned a little bit in those last few years, but it never went away completely. And then he died, and it was gone. It was as if it had never been there. For a while I didn't know what to do. I had been so angry... And then I just wasn't," she broke off for a moment, a deep frown creasing her forehead, "And suddenly, I could feel guilty about what we had done."

His eyes jerked sharply to her face. Their pace had slowed to a halt, by the wall which surrounded the garden of his house. Her frown faded a little. Her eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth twitched a little.

"I _could _feel guilty. But I didn't. At least I didn't regret what we did. Can you feel guilt and not regret?" she asked him, "I think I did."

He did not know what to say except.

"I think what's past is past, Isobel," he told her gently, trying to offer her something solid, though unable to answer her question.

She met his eyes. For some reason she looked terribly hurt for a moment but when she spoke it was with conviction and firmness.

"You see that's exactly what it's not," she told him simply, "At least not for people like us."

His heart seemed to miss a beat. He did not entirely understand what she meant, but still, the way she said it, it made his heart shudder a little and skip.

"What are you saying?" he asked her, unable to hide the imploring note in his voice.

All she did was smile- her deliciously enigmatic smile which would infuriate him so much if not for its gentleness, its coyness and how he loved it- and walk on. He followed quickly. She had smiled like that deliberately to tease him, and it had worked.

She reached the gate.

"Is this it?" she asked him.

"Yes," he told her, opening the gate for her, "I hope you like it."

"What a thing to say," she laughed as she went through, "I'm sure-... oh, Richard!"

"What?" he asked, following her through, closing the gate behind them.

"That," she simply pointed, "Look," and he followed her gaze.

He had to admit it was breathtaking. The wall at the back of the garden was old and crumbling and low enough to allow a view of the fields at the back of the house. Darkness had fallen over the garden and the village, but in the distance they could see now that the sun was only just setting over the low wall and the tops of the various flowers that had grown long and wild in his garden. A faint breeze whistled over the long grass and poppies, but it was not cold and the mellow pink-orange colours of the sky and the thin blue clouds made it seem warm and safe. They stood together looking out at the sight for long moments.

"It used to be tidy in here," he told her quietly, with an apologetic smile, "I'm afraid the hospital doesn't allow much time for gardening."

"It's beautiful," she replied, not taking her eyes off the sun setting in the distance, "I've a mind to dismiss the gardener at Crawley House and let the garden there grow wild too."

His eyes had moved to her face, the warm yellow sunlight tainting her skin, making her look warm too. The light caught her hair, her eyes. She was still breathtakingly beautiful. There was no _still_ about it, she was more beautiful now to him than she'd ever been, if that were possible. All the beauty of the past, of their past together, was alive in that moment, in her face. She was right. What was past, what had passed between them, was very much present. It always would be; every time he looked at her. He had already known that. Of course she was right.

It was so quiet. The walls blocked out any sound from the village. It felt in that moment as if they were the only two people left on the earth.

He took a step closer to him, taking hold of her hand.

"Isobel," he whispered to her.

She turned her head to him in surprise, her lips parting a little when she caught the way he was looking at her.

"Richard," she whispered back, smiling.

He squeezed her hand tightly in his as he pressed his lips ever so softly to hers and kissed her. She responded without hesitation, turning her body to face his, and a second later opening her mouth for him as his arms moved to hold her. When their kiss had ended they broke off, resting their foreheads together, her hands hovering on his chest and his arms around her back. He was pleased to note that her breathing was a little ragged.

"If what's past isn't really gone," he told her, "Then by rights I should be in love with you."

I am, he wanted to tell her, I'm still in love with you. But something stopped looked up at him and their eyes met.

"Would that be so terrible?" she asked, her voice light, sounding a little sad.

He shook his head, wordlessly, leaning his mouth back to hers but she pulled her head back. She let out a heavy sigh.

"Richard, give me time," she pleaded with him, "I'm not saying no, but give me time. Please."

"Yes. Whatever you want," he replied quickly, releasing her from his arms, and then, a second later, "But why? Forgive me for asking, but you've had seven years, since-..."

"And how many times have I seen you in those seven years?" she asked him, tilting her head to the side a little, "How many times have we been together? I need to be sure."

There was a pause.

"Sure of you or sure of me?" he asked her.

"Of both, I think."

He opened his mouth about to protest.

"Richard," she told him a little sharply, "You've every right to ask, but don't question my reasoning, please."

He looked and felt very contrite for a moment. It was wrong of him to rush her. He had waited this long, a little longer would not hurt, for her. She smiled at him softly, sorry for having been so stern with him, and clasped his hands gently in one of hers.

"Richard," she murmured again, so much more softly than before, brushing her other gloved hand gently on his face to rest on his cheek, "I'm sorry. Just a little time. That's all I want."

He was quiet, almost quite sullen for a few moments, before turning his head quickly and planting a defiant kiss on her palm before she could stop him. Their eyes met and it seemed she could not help but smile at him.

"Will you still walk me home?" she asked him.

"Yes," he replied, "Of course, I want to."

He guided her towards the gate, resisting the temptation to rest his hand in the small of her back. She turned to him as they reached the wall; wanting to say one last thing to him before they left the seemingly enchanted realm of his darkening garden.

"Whatever happens," she told him, "We'll still be friends. Won't we?"

"Oh yes," he promised her, "Whatever happens."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here is an early chapter to make sure you got something before Friday because I'm going away for the weekend. This is for ellylilly-pmch. Please do give me some reviews to keep me going, I'm not quite sure how the last chapter went down.**

Reginald arrived back in Ladysmith in the middle of the day, coming into the main ward of the hospital. Seeing him enter, Richard walked down the ward towards him, smiling as warmly as he was physically able. It was difficult for him to remember now that he had once liked Crawley, and that in general he was a decent sort of chap. Only now it was so hard to see him without feeling how infinitely inferior he was to his wife in so many ways. A man like Reginald simply did not deserve a woman like Isobel, because Richard was quickly coming to understand that men like Crawley did not understand women like Isobel. Richard barely understood her himself, but that was because he could hardly take in her intensity, the extent of her. He could hardly believe a woman like her could be real, whereas Crawley did not understand what she was. That was the difference.

He was jerked rudely out of reflections as Crawley extended his hand for Richard's, shaking it firmly.

"Captain Clarkson."

"Captain Crawley," Richard replied shortly, "Welcome back. I trust your return was safe?"

"Damn sight safer than where I've been," Crawley replied brusquely, shrugging his shoulders quite gruffly, "How have things been here?"

"Rather manic," Richard replied as lightly as he could.

"Yes," Crawley had a look in his eye that led Richard to believe he did not quite appreciate the extent to which Richard's statement was true, "I'm _sure_ it was."

For a moment Richard was hard-pressed not to sigh heavily. It was a source of great irritation to him whenever army fellows assumed that because they had been at the front line they had been in much worse conditions than anyone else. He was sure it was difficult in certain respects, and highly unpleasant, but that did not mean they had not been struggling desperately here in the hospital too. For the moment, however, he was able to swallow his irritation.

Crawley was giving him a rather genial look, a tad pleased with himself.

"How's the old girl been while I've been away?" he wanted to know.

"What, Isobel?" Richard asked, without thinking.

Crawley blinked for a moment to hear Richard referring to his wife by her first name but obviously chose not to say anything about it.

"Yes, Isobel," he clarified, "I say, are you both getting on better than when I left?"

"We were never at odds, really," Richard replied, willing his ears not to redden as he answered the question. It would certainly not do to be too unwittingly honest at this of all moments.

"That's not what I thought," Reginald answered, "Before I left the old girl gave the impression that you two were always at loggerheads."

"Why do you call her that?" Richard asked, his irritation finally breaking through.

"What?"

"Old girl. I don't think she likes it."

"Well, goodness me, Clarkson. You might be getting on better together but I didn't know that you were married to her now."

Richard was silent. He did not know what to say to that. His heart was hammering.

"What do you mean?" he almost stammered.

Crawley narrowed his eyes a little.

"Come on, man, I'm only winding you up," he told him, grinning, clapping him on the back in an attempt at geniality, "Where is she, anyway? I thought she was meant to be in here with you?"

"I've put her in charge of your ward," Richard told him.

Crawley looked genuinely taken aback.

"I say, you have been stretched, I didn't realise. Did all of the other chaps go to the front as well to make you give her a job like that?"

"No," Richard replied smartly- Isobel had told him he might get a response like this and her accuracy had been rather uncanny-, "I thought she was the best person for the job."

"But she's not qualified-..."

"Not on paper she's not," Richard agreed, "But in practice she's more than competent, I assure you, I would go as far as outstanding even. She's been doing an excellent job. You ought to be proud of your wife, you know, Crawley."

Reginald looked as if he didn't know what to say. Fortunately, he was saved- or perhaps he was not- by Isobel's appearance in the door of the ward. She approached them both, smiling rather serenely. Richard willed himself not to meet her eye, but a second later his gaze strayed and they exchanged a fleeting glance.

"Hello, Reginald," she addressed her husband.

"Hello, Isobel," he responded, "I hear you've been filling in for me while I've been away."

"I've been doing my best," Isobel replied. Her voice sounded cold, but Crawley seemed not to notice.

"I'm sure you have been, my dear," he told her, sounding almost gracious for a moment, "You must be quite worn out by now."

For the first time, Richard saw Isobel give her husband a small smile. He tried not to let himself be hurt too much by it; he had to remind himself that she _was _after all Reginald's wife and not... Oh, God, he loved her and this was painful.

"I am quite tired," Isobel conceded, "We've been very busy."

She gave Richard another smile, a warmer smile and his heart rose again, healed, soaring in his chest. The effect that a look from her, a nod from her, a slight undertone in her voice, could have on him was truly amazing, and yet Crawley seemed almost oblivious to them. Richard had been right. Crawley did not deserve Isobel; Isobel's little finger was worth more than Reginald's body and soul together.

"I'm sure," Crawley gave his wife a smile that was a mixture of warmth and condescension, "But it's alright now, my dear. Now that I'm back, I'll be able to take over the ward again and-..."

"What?" There was a sharpness in Isobel's tone that ended any background rumination going on in Richard's head, and there was a look in her eyes that was nothing short of dangerous.

Still, Reginald did not seem to take heed of it.

"I said that now I'm back I'll be able to take over the ward from you again and you'll be able to get some rest."

Isobel blinked.

"You want to take my job away from me?" he asked him, looking horrified.

It was Reginald's turn to look surprised.

"Darling, it was never your job in the first place," he told her, then, turning to Richard, "Clarkson, back me up on this."

"Nurse Crawley was promoted in your absence," Richard told him, "Because you were fulfilling a commission elsewhere. As far as I am aware, you are still fulfilling that commission until I am notified otherwise by the Brigadier and you can hardly expect me to demote your replacement when she has done nothing to deserve it."

"But that's precisely it!" Reginald exclaimed, quite angry now, "_She! _She's my wife, for goodness sake."

"I can't see that make the slightest bit of difference," Richard observed.

"She isn't qualified!"

"And yet her performance in the role which you are now disputing has actually been markedly better than your own," Richard told him, keeping his voice low and calm, bolstered by Isobel's presence at his side, "Under much more severe circumstances there has been just as high a recovery rate among her patients. Like I said, you really ought to be exceptionally proud of your wife."

Crawley really seemed to be fuming by this point.

"I refuse to have this conversation here," he told them both, "Can't we talk about this at some other time?"

"By all means," Richard replied.

Reginald looked furiously from one to the other. When neither of them responded, it only seemed to frustrate him more.

"Oh, I'm going back to the hotel!" he told them both angrily, "If there really is no job for me here!"

"That's probably for the best," Richard told him, "I imagine the brigadier will contact you soon."

As Crawley turned on his heel and stalked out of the ward Richard could not help but feel a jolt of satisfaction.

"Well, that certainly showed him," Richard remarked, turning rather proudly towards Isobel.

It horrified him to see, when he turned towards her, that she was crying. The only reply he received was a weak sort of whimper from the back of her throat and tears, streaming down both of her cheeks.

"Isobel?" he whispered, shocked.

"Sorry," she replied, trembling and wiping her eyes furiously, "Sorry, Richard."

"Don't be sorry," he told her, "You've done nothing wrong. Come on, let's get you out of the ward."

Slipping his arm gently around her shoulder, he led her to his office, shutting the door tightly behind them both.

"What's the matter?" he asked her, coming to stand before her, taking her hands tenderly in his.

"It's Reginald!" she exclaimed, "He never-... Nothing is ever good enough for him. I'm not the wife he wants me to be!"

"How can you say that?" he asked her.

"How can you deny it after what's just happened?" she replied.

"What I meant was, how can you not be good enough for anyone?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, quite easily," she replied bitterly, "I excel at it, apparently. I'm not pretty, or well qualified, or a good hostess-..."

"Isobel, just stop." he told her, "Reginald's a bloody fool."

There was a pause. His hand left hers and reached around her body, drawing her close to him. She did not stop him and rested her hands on his chest.

Tremulously close to her, he could not resist the urge to place a kiss on her forehead. When he leant away from her, he saw her eyes were closed and she looked more relaxed than before, so he planted another hesitant kiss on her lips. Her eyes opened and she kissed him back.

He held her against his chest.

"You're good enough for me," he whispered to her, "You're the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Oh, Richard-..." she tried to say something to him but her voice came out as more of a choked sob, and he soothed her , rubbing her back until she could talk again. "I think I should have married you instead."

He looked at her clearly, a lump rising in his throat.

"Please don't joke about that," he told her seriously.

She looked back at him equally steadily.

"Who said I was joking?" she replied.

Their look was so intense that he could not help but press his lips back to hers.

"Oh, my darling-..."

He kissed her for as long as he could, holding her tightly to him. He could not believe that it was Reginald she would go home to, Reginald who would, quite possibly, make love to her, if he wanted to. It made him feel sick. He wanted to be the one to take her home, he wanted-... He wanted her. But equally, he still found it hard to believe that she was here with him now, like this, kissing him through her tears. He loved her very much, but to say so now would only make things harder for both of them.

"I should go back to the hotel," she told him finally, "He'll be waiting to see me."

"Have the rest of the day off," he told her. Then, after a moment, "He will be alright to you, won't he? When you're alone? I mean, he won't hold the job against you in any other way?"

"You mean he won't be violent towards me?" she asked, "No, I shouldn't think so. He's never violent. Only in his ignorance, and tactlessness."

"Oh, darling-..."

"It's alright," she assured him, "Really, Richard, it's alright."

"Isobel, you're good enough for me," he repeated, looking into her eyes, "Remember that, please."

"Yes, I will, Richard," she promised him, "No matter what. Thank you."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry for the delay. Here is another chapter, the worth of which I am not convinced of, I just wanted to give you something.**

He returned from the flower show, thoroughly sick of everything. It was a warm day, and he had been busy; and as a consequence he had been late. Standing at the back of the crowd, he had resorted to fanning himself with his hat in order to stay cool. That and the fact that by the time he had got there, the hall had filled up with too many people for him to be able to make his way to the front to see Isobel. He had had to make do of a view from the back, of her beautiful face, and the contrast of her skin- faintly brown from spending time in the sun- with the neck of her creamy coat. That did nothing to help the warmth he was feeling, but he could not help himself.

He could not take his eyes off her. The thought that he had held this woman, kissed this woman-... Not just years ago, in the past, but in the here and now... It was almost too much to handle. At one point she turned her head in his direction, and caught his eye, and smiled; her smile that always made him feel as if he was the only person in that crowded room that she wanted to see. That one moment made his standing there, and all his discomfort entirely worthwhile. It was quite a dangerous smile, when he thought about it like that. He hummed to himself happily at the memory- it shone out in his mind even in spite of the disappointment of not being able to see her at the end. He knew very well he'd go through hell and high waters to have such a moment again, to see her looking at him like that across a crowded room, so unguarded and open.

And yet... he would not tell her he loved her. Such a simple thing. Why was that so much more difficult?

He paused for a moment, resting his hand on the back of the settee, not having noticed that up until that moment he had been idling there, thinking of her. He was sick of it. And it was unfair to her, to not let her know how he felt about her. He didn't only want to think of her... This was ridiculous. He wanted her. He had already known that, but never felt it more strongly than in this moment; the feeling raging through his veins. He want to see her now, and he wanted to tell her- He would go to her _now_.

Without thinking for a second longer- he had to do this now or he would lose his nerve- he made his way out through the back door of the kitchen, into the garden. There was on old pair of trimmers in box by the door, and as quickly as he could he cut the best flowers he could find amid the floral mess she had so admired when they had stood here together, when they had stood in the sunset kissing. He cut enough for a sizeable bunch, and chose all kinds, not knowing which she would like best. Bringing them back into the kitchen, he tied them up in a piece of twin as tidily as he could, and set off for Crawley House, barely stopping to close the front door behind himself. It barely occurred to him that perhaps she was sick of the sight of flowers after today. He was not sure how else to say it to her. He had nothing else to bring her.

Reaching her front door, he knocked impatiently. Molesley came to answer it.

"Is Mrs Crawley in?" he asked.

"She is," Molesley replied with his usual air of moderate coolness, "Come in, I'll tell her you're here."

Richard had realised by this point that he was quite out of breath- he had not quite realised how quickly he had walked here- and only nodded.

"Richard?" she appeared in the hallway before Molesley could fetch her, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he told her, "Perfectly."

There was a moment's pause.

"I wanted to see you."

"Oh?" her eyes wandered to the flowers he held in his hand.

"I'm sorry I couldn't see you properly at the show," he told her, feeling a little inane, very conscious that Molesley was hovering there with them.

Thankfully, she seemed to detect the urgency in his voice, and responded calmly, "Yes, of course, come through. Molesley, that will be all."

He followed her into the sitting room, which was full of evening light. She closed the door behind them herself.

"Why did you want to see me?" she asked him, the hint of a curious smile playing on her lips.

"I brought you these," he told her, handing her the flowers.

"Oh, thank you!" she replied, taking them, "They're lovely. Are they from your garden?"

"Yes," he told her, "You said you liked them."

"Yes, I do," she told him, turning her back to him, placing them in the vase on the window sill.

"I thought they might remind you of, well..." he did not know how to say it, though they both knew what he wanted to say; _of that evening we were there together, of when I held you, and kissed you, and... _"Of us being there together."

She turned back to him, the smile on her lips a touch wider.

"Yes," she replied softly, "I'm sure they will."

"I wanted," he began quickly, not really knowing how he was going to continue, "I wanted to tell you... I didn't know how..."

He had come here, so focussed on the strength of his intention that he had not spared a single thought for how he was going to make it good, for how on earth he was going to tell her this.

"What?" she prompted him, watching him carefully, still feet from him, almost resting her back against the window sill, "What did you want to tell me?"

He swallowed hard.

"Isobel, when you said that things haven't changed between us, well you were right, at least on my part."

She waited for a second for him to go on, but when he did not she spoke.

"I didn't say that," she replied, her voice kind but firm, "I said that the past, our past, is still very much with us now. There's a difference."

"Even so," he pressed on, "For me-... I wanted to tell you, that for me, I would be willing, that's to say I want to... If we were to go back to the way things were. Do you know what I'm trying to tell you?"

"Yes, Richard, I think I do," she told him.

"What I'm trying to say is that you needn't be unsure about me," he explained, "When you said you weren't certain yet about...us. I should have told you then, you can count on me. I never stopped loving you," he told her, his heart hammering in his chest, "That's why I kissed you, for no other reason. I can't stop thinking about you, I've been watching you all day. You're incredible. I can hardly believe we're together again like this, and I would never forgive myself if I didn't at least say tell you now that we're here: if you wanted us to get married tomorrow, I would do it. Anything you want, Isobel. I love you. "

She stood there, quite stunned, just looking at him. He willed her to say something. The relaxed assurance she had had just a few moments ago seemed have quite vanished.

"Richard... I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," he replied swiftly, "I'm only telling you how I feel. I don't need anything in reply."

"Oh, Richard," she murmured softly, a sad smile on her lips as she took a step towards him, "You're almost too good to be true sometimes, and I'm not saying no... And I'm not saying I don't love you but..."

"But what?" he asked.

She looked at him, an expression of near-torment suddenly marking her face.

"I don't know," she half whispered, "This is so sudden, I'm... I only know that I don't feel ready for this, Richard. I'm sorry."

"Forget I said anything," he told her, his head held low, "Don't let me spoil everything."

"You haven't, Richard," she insisted, taking another step forward to touch his arm gently, "I'm not saying I'll never be ready. Just, not now. I love what we have, I love being your friend and having supper with you and," she flushed just a touch, "I find I'm no more averse to kissing you than I ever was, even after time. I want to make sure we're both ready for... more."

There was a pause.

"Do you understand?"

"Of course, I do," he replied.

"Do you really?" she asked, raising her eyebrow just a touch, "Do you understand that it's alright that you said these things to me, what you told me is alright? It doesn't hold us back. I'm just waiting a little while to move forward."

He smiled in genuine relief.

"Yes," he breathed, "Thank you, Isobel."

"It's me who should be thanking you," she replied, "For the things you said to me. And for the flowers. They're the most beautiful I've seen all day, Richard."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	12. Chapter 12

**This chapter may seem all kinds of crazy, but I encourage you to just go with it. I wanted to get it written because I can't do any tomorrow. Please do give me a review to keep me going.**

The hotel was loud and crowded, and too hot. It irritated him beyond measure, but it was a mercy that the meeting was finally over. He had come to see the brigadier about Crawley's commission and they had decided that Crawley should be the medical orderly in residence at the hotel until such a time that he was needed in action again. In could not be denied, this was exactly the result he had hoped for; it was a comfortable position that Crawley was unlikely to find fault in, and, more importantly, it meant that he would not face the difficulty- either professional or emotional- of demoting Isobel. Very pleased with himself, he set off in the direction of the Crawleys' rooms to tell her as soon as possible.

But the boy working on the desk said that she was not there.

"Where is she, then?" he asked, surprised and a little put out, "It's her day off. Would you happen to know?"

"She usually goes for a walk in the afternoons," the boy was able to tell him, "In the hotel grounds, normally."

"Thank you," Richard told him.

"The rose garden, I expect," the boy supplied.

He set off in the specified direction without delay.

At first, the garden seemed deserted, he surveyed the rows of flowers carefully. She was nowhere to be seen.

He was just about to give up and look elsewhere, when suddenly she was there; stepping out of the small shed in the corner.

"Isobel?" he called out to her.

She visibly jumped at the sound of her name, looking wildly around for second, calming a little when she saw it was him. He did not know what else to call her appearance except shifty.

"Not so loud! What are you doing here?" she asked him in a hushed voice, hurrying towards him.

"Looking for you," he told her, "And I could easily ask you the same question. What on earth are you doing in the gardener's shed?"

All sorts of thoughts were flying through his head. He did not know what to think.

She answered his evidently horrified expression with a very level look of her own.

"Well, I'm sure it's not as bad as whatever you seem to be thinking," she told him, and when he did not say anything, "Oh, come on. I might as well show you. But you mustn't breathe a word to anyone."

And with that, she took him by the hand, led him through the roses to the shed. She opened the door with a forceful push and led him inside. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness when she had shut the door, but when they did and his eyes had adjusted he nearly died of surprise. Whatever he had expected to see, it was not a Moses basket in the corner of the shed, with a child sleeping inside, no older than six months.

"Isobel... What...? You haven't got yourself into trouble, have you?" he asked, desperately trying to find some kind of light to this alarming revelation, unable to do anything else. He felt almost like Providence was playing a particularly exacting practical joke on him.

She graced him with one wry smile, but her face looked serious after a moment.

"She was entrusted to me," she explained, though somewhat mysteriously, "Last week."

He hardly dared to ask; "By whom?"

She looked at him very clearly and solemnly.

"A Boer woman. The wife of a farmer. She was starving."

"How did she know to give her to you?" he asked.

"Because she saw me leaving the hospital one day. And because I gave her food."

"Isobel. You do realise that what you're doing is tantamount to collaboration?"

She folded her arms across her chest.

"How?"

"You're helping the enemy!"

"They aren't my enemy," she replied stoutly, "They aren't anybody's enemy. They're civilians."

"Isobel," he hardly knew what to say to her, or what to think, why, why was she so unpredictable, and why did he love her for it, even in spite of this hysterical situation she had brought them both into, "As much as I admire your humanitarian spirit, and could never bring myself to criticise it, I'm not convinced the General Staff would see it like that. They'd probably shoot you for a traitor!"

"Are you going to shoot me?" she asked him levelly, "Because if you are, or if you want to, I'd ask that you do it now and get it over with."

"What?" he asked her, astonished, "Don't be ridiculous!"

"You are on my side, then?" she asked him calmly.

He took a deep breath, looking at her very hard. She did not even blink.

"Yes, I'm on your side. But, in God's name, _why_, Isobel?"

"Because they're our fellow creatures," she replied simply, "Because I'm a nurse, and I heal. Because I hope, if I should ever need it, a stranger would show my child and I the same kindness. Because I can hardly stand the fact that our army is destroying Boer crops in an attempt to starve them into submission, and it makes me deeply ashamed. Because a woman trusted me, and I'd like to think I deserve that trust," she was quiet for a moment, "The child's name is Eliza."

He took another long breath, trying to take all of this in.

"And what do you intend to do with her?" he asked, "This little girl. I assume you must have some sort of a plan. Or do you intend to raise her in this shed single handedly?"

"I'm going to take her to the hospital," she told him smartly, "And say I found her abandoned, and that I think she might be the child of a British officer. I don't know if it will work, but it's my only hope. The best outcome is that she'll be taken back to England and adopted. Even if she survives, she'll never know her mother. I'm making sure she's healthy before I take her there, though. I had to give her that, at least."

Richard looked at her in supreme admiration, barely able to believe her at all. How could such a woman as this exist?

"How on earth have you been managing?" he enquired, "Even for a week?"

"It's been difficult," she admitted, "I try to get her to sleep while I'm at the hospital. I sneak out here in the evenings, mornings and during the night."

"You must be exhausted," he remarked.

"Only a little," she smiled wearily, "I'll live."

"Will you let me take her to the hospital now?" he asked her.

There was a pause. She considered.

"It would be safer for you," he pointed out.

"I know it would," she replied sharply, "But it would be the right thing?"

"It is the safest for you. Therefore I insist upon it."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Alright, then. Can I come with you?"

He nodded gently.

"Of course."

…**...**

"Why did you come here?"

She raised her head from where it lolled a little towards her shoulder and onto the back of the wicker chair she had taken up in her exhaustion; her movement weary with tiredness and heat. After taking the baby to the hospital, she had seemed a little shaken, so he had shirked propriety for once and taken her over to his flat for a sit down. She had declined a drink. Her face had been languishing in the cooling but nevertheless intense evening light from the window, and the brightness and shade flickered across the smooth contours of her face as she moved.

"What did you say?" she asked him. She had been miles away, she had not heard him.

"Why did you come here?" he repeated.

"What do you mean?" she asked him, "Today I was just at the hospital. There isn't much for me to do at home."

"No, what are you doing in South Africa?" he asked her, "I know why your husband's here, but what are _you _doing? I'm beginning to realise that it wasn't some compelling sense of patriotic duty. You don't care a fig for whose side anyone's on, you just want to heal. Why not stay in England?"

There was a pause for a moment.

"It was what Reginald wanted," she told him.

"Only Reginald?" he asked her.

"It was Reginald's idea," she clarified, "He said he felt he ought to help."

"Couldn't you have stayed?" he asked her.

"I couldn't bear the thought," she told him, "With Reginald gone. With him away, I would have been left alone with his ghastly mother and sister, and that would have been more than I could stand. Anyway, I wanted to come out here too, in a way. It would have been awful to think that he was doing something useful while I was lounging about the house. Without him, I wouldn't have been able to assist at Manchester General any more, you see. I wanted to help as well, and I'm more use out here than I would be at home. At least I hope I am."

"Of course you are," he told her, very quietly, firmly, "Hasn't what you've done over the past few months proved that? You're..."

There was a pause. How was he supposed to describe her in words? Brave? Wonderful? Incredible? That all fell short of the mark. Bit it seemed that it was alright. He thought she might be biting back a smile in the corner of her mouth, but she turned her head away just then, looking towards the window. The light beamed down onto her face, casting a bold light over her profile. Her eyes fell shut against the brightness though her face tilted upwards, full into the sun.

"So why are you so unhappy here?" he asked her, "If you wanted to come, if it was your choice? Don't tell me that you are happy, because you're not, you're deeply unhappy. I thought it might just be the war and the dreadful conditions out here, but now I'm not so sure. Is it only Reginald?" he suggested, hoping it wasn't. If it was Reginald, then her life was always this unhappy. He did not think he could bear that thought.

Her figure stiffened a little and she turned her head a little sharply towards him. She looked at him very clearly for a moment, the sun falling on her brown eyes, lightening their darkness.

"I miss my son," she told him after a moment, "I think that's why I took Lizzy so willingly. I know for certain that I would have been happier if Reginald had never mentioned the idea of coming here. I'd have been happy for things to stay as they were, but the moment he made the suggestion... well, we were packing our bags before we knew what was happening, and Matthew had to go away to school."

"You must have been happy, then," he surmised, "At home."

There was another pause, an edgier one. He suspected that she was trying to measure just how much of the truth she could tell, and that spoke more than anything she ever said could.

"I was happy enough," she replied, her voice cold and firm, and she bowed her head as she said it, "All things considered," she was quiet for a second, "You've seen how I am with Reginald these days," she reminded him, "You know what we're like. I've told you myself."

Even so, he did not dare press this line of enquiry just at the moment. He thought he heard a subtle warning in her voice, telling him not to, which is why he was surprised when she offered the information of her own accord.

"I suppose you're wondering why I married him?"

He gave her a small smile, silently congratulating her on her intuition.

"Why did you?" he asked after a moment, wondering if he was finally about to get an answer to the question he had been pondering for so long.

"Because lots of people told me it would be a very good thing if I did," she replied sadly, " I think I convinced myself it would be a very good thing. And I was young enough to be able to ignore the concept of "forever". I was too young to really believe it. I didn't realise what a lot of time forever is."

"And _was_ it a good thing?" he asked, knowing he was pressing his luck.

"In part," she replied fairly, then, after a moment, "More than I really expected it to be. I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised for a while."

"And overall?" he wanted to know "What about now?"

She looked at her lap, examining her fingers carefully.

"I have Matthew," she replied simply, "I had a very difficult time trying to have a child, you know. For a long time we thought I couldn't. That boy means the world to me."

There was a silence between the two of them.

"You don't love him," he stated simply, "Reginald. Some couples don't get along on the surface but everything's alright underneath. You aren't like that."

She looked away, out of the window again, narrowing her eyes against the sun.

"I sometimes wonder if that matters at all," she finally said, "Does it matter, at the end of the day?"

He felt a muscle tighten in his jaw, his finger twitch a little where it rested on his knee. The answer to that, he thought was that it did not always matter, in practice, but he could not stand to think of her being alienated from love when she could have it, she could have it in abundance. With him. He stared hard at the back of her head. But she turned back to face him a moment later, giving him an attempt at a smile.

"Reginald is fundamentally a good and kind man," she told him firmly, "He doesn't hurt me, he'd never dream of it. I'm luckier than lots of other women."

He saw in her eyes the thoughts of the poor Boer woman whose child she had taken in. But they were not talking about her...

"You're bored out of your head," he surmised, "He can never understand what you are."

"Oh?" she narrowed her eyes a little at that, "What am I?"

"You're a good woman, Isobel. You did the right thing about Lizzy, I promise you. You're a good woman who's bored, and you're lonely," he repeated concisely, "That's why you agreed to come here."

She shifted in her seat as if to get up.

"Maybe," she replied weakly, giving the floor half a smile.

He could see that she was ready to leave. More than likely he had made her feel very uncomfortable with all of his questions.

"I'll sent for the driver to take you back to the hotel," he told her.

"There's no need for that," she replied.

There was a beat.

"But, you are going, aren't you?" he asked.

He was frightened, he realised, very frightened of what would happen if she did not leave now, at this moment. It seemed perhaps that he had misread her. She was not about to leave. But if she stayed then...Whenever he kissed her, it was all he could do to make himself stop. He knew he would not be able to if he kissed her now. And he badly wanted to kiss her. She had to leave or it would undo them both. And, from the look in her eyes, he thought she knew that. He swallowed hard.

However, she seemed prepared to acquiesce. She gave him a soft smile.

"I've been inside all day, I'd like to walk. Won't you walk me back?"

He looked up into her eyes, seeing them wide and open for him. He had not made her awkward. Quite the opposite. Her eyes shone into his, her face softened by the incredible force of compassion he now knew she possessed, that he could hardly have guessed at before, how brave she was, how selfless. He badly wanted to caress her face, so tenderly. Press his lips to hers...

"I don't think I could, Mrs Crawley," he told her.

There was a small pause. He thought she was trying not to look hurt.

"I'll walk by myself, then," she replied, a little stonily.

"No, I couldn't allow that," he told her hurriedly, "Please let me call the driver to take you."

"No," she replied sharply, "I won't let you," she got up hurriedly, and tottered a little, unsteady with residual tiredness and heat.

It crossed his mind to stand in her way and insist that she allowed him to call the car for her. But she headed him off.

"Don't," she told him, "Don't try to be courteous to me when you're too much of a gentleman to give me what I need. What we both want."

Their eyes blazed into one another for long moments, and he thought he was just on the cusp of giving in to her, but then she looked away. She picked up her bag, and would not look at him.

"Goodbye, Dr. Clarkson."

"Goodbye."

The door slammed. She had already gone.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you for all your lovely reviews. This is another chapter of slight speeding up (!) and I can proudly announce that the rating will be going up to an M next chapter (!)**

He was woken in the middle of the night by a frantic knocking on his door. This did not happen infrequently, but that did not make it a pleasant experience when it did. However, as usual, he resigned himself to seeing pulling on his dressing gown and making his way downstairs, yawning, to see who was there.

He almost did a double take when he saw Molesley standing there in his overcoat with a lantern. His heart leapt anxiously in his chest.

"Molesley, what's wrong?" he asked, "Is it Mrs Crawley?" The thought frightened him, "What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her, Doctor?" he replied, "But she asks that you come over to Crawley House."

"Absolutely, I'll be there as soon as I've got dressed." he agreed, relief was flooding him to the point where he almost forgot to ask why, but then, "What _is _wrong, Molesley? Is it Mr Matthew?"

"No," Molesley replied, "It's Lady Sybil."

"Lady Sybil? But-... At Crawley House?"

"She was caught up in trouble at the Ripon bi-election. Mr Matthew brought her to Mrs Crawley. Mr Branson has been sent to the house to fetch Lady Mary, and Mrs Crawley asked that I bring you."

"Of course, Molesley. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He would have guessed that he made it over to Crawley House in record time. Just as he arrived, the car pulled up and Branson and Lady Mary got out.

"Dr. Clarkson," Lady Mary told him, "I'm glad to see you here. Have you seen her yet?"

"No, m'Lady, I've just got here myself. All I have is Molesley's word that Mr Matthew brought her back from Ripon."

"I'm sure Cousin Isobel will tell us more," she told him, "I'm glad they brought her here rather than home; Mama would have fallen into a fit if they'd brought her back. Cousin Isobel will know what to do."

"Yes," he replied firmly, certain of that at least.

They hurried in through the front door which Molesley was holding open for them.

"They're in the sitting room," he told them both.

The scene in the sitting room was impressively organised. It seemed very much as if Isobel had converted her sitting room into a miniature well-upholstered version of the ward with remarkable efficiency. Lady Sybil lay on the couch, with Matthew in a chair at its foot. Isobel stood there in a pale purple dressing gown, cleaning a wound on Sybil's forehead.

"Oh good God," Lady Mary muttered beside him, raising her hand to her mouth.

Seeing that they were there, Matthew stood up and offered Mary his chair.

"Hello," Richard raised his hat to all assembled, and then placed it on the sideboard.

Isobel looked up at him, smiling at the sight of him.

"Thank you for coming," she told him, "I think she's going to be alright. She was unconscious when Matthew brought her in, but she's come round since. I just... I'd feel safer knowing you'd seen her. She _is_ family. I'm sorry to drag you from your bed."

"It's alright," he replied quietly, "There's not much to keep me there anyway."

He said it without thinking, and immediately felt himself colour a little. Looking at her face, he saw that she was equally taken aback by the remark; her eyes had widened just a fraction as they did when she was trying to conceal that she was a little shocked. Worrying that anyone else might have heard him, he cast a glance over towards Matthew and Lady Mary, but their attention seemed to wrapped up in each other's presence to notice his chance remarks. He turned back to Isobel.

"Sorry," he told her in a hushed voice, "I didn't-..."

"I know you didn't," she replied, a gentle smile on her face, "It's alright."

She folded her arms so that the thick purple fabric of her robe creased just above her middle. Her hair was tied up to sleep, but some strands at the front had come loose. The golden light of the lamps hit her hair with a golden tinge that made her seem radiant. There was a warmth in her eyes that he thought came in part from sleepiness and in part from the domesticity of this meeting; he had seen that warmth before. She was so very lovely. He was hard-pressed to tear his eyes away from her.

"I'd better see to Lady Sybil," he told her quietly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Yes," she replied, "You probably should."

Still, for a moment he stayed there, captivated by the sight of her, before he turned away and walked towards the sofa and Lady Sybil.

…**...**

He stayed until Lady Sybil and Lady Mary were bundle back up into the car, with Mr Branson and Matthew in the front seat, who had insisted on accompanying them home. After seeing them all off, he, Isobel and Molesley were left standing in the corridor.

"Molesley, you can be off to bed now," she told him, "I'm sorry to have kept you up. If we want anything, we can get it ourselves."

Molesley nodded to them both, looking quite glad to get away.

"Goodnight, Ma'am."

"Goodnight, Molesley."

She turned to him.

"Can I get you anything? I feel awful having got you out of bed, and not given you anything in return. A glass of whiskey?" That certainly surprised him. She smiled. "Well, I'm going to have one. I find it calms me down. You know, some rascal in South Africa got me started on it."

Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile. Isobel grinned at him over her shoulder as she made her way back into the sitting room, pouring out two glasses of whiskey and handing one to him.

"Thank you," he told her.

"Please have a seat," she told him.

She took the seat beside him on the couch. They sat companionably close, comfortingly close.

"Thank you for coming," she told him seriously, "I don't know what I'd have done without you."

"You'd have managed," he assured her, "But I understand, you wanted to be sure because she's family. You did the right thing. But I was wondering, and I didn't like to ask when they were here, how the devil did she get in that state in the first place?"

"Well, she was at the bi-election and evidently some sort of a fight broke out."

"Yes, but what was she doing there?" he asked her.

She looked at him for a second, quite a mischievous light in her eyes.

"We have another Liberal in the family," she told him proudly.

"Oh, heavens preserve us!"

She narrowed her eyes a little at him.

"I didn't have you down for a Conservative, Richard."

"I'm not, I assure you!" he stressed, almost affronted at the notion, "To tell you the truth, in both of the 1910 elections, I was a Labour man. Now, I've really shocked you."

"You always have to outdo me, don't you?" she asked him, smiling.

He laughed.

"Sorry," he told her, "I didn't mean to."

"No, it's quite alright," she assured him, "My late husband was a Conservative, and look how we ended up."

There was a heavy pause.

"Sorry," she told him quietly.

"No need," he replied.

There was quiet for another few moments.

"But what is there to make Lady Sybil want to be a Liberal?" he asked her, "If there's a born Conservative family, it's the Crawleys up at Downton Abbey."

She gave another rather proud look.

"She wants to be able to vote," she told him triumphantly.

"Oh," he replied, "That one. I see. Have you put her up to this?"

"Certainly not!" she replied, "I admit I might not have exactly stopped her, but I did tell her she was far better off writing to her MP. I do admit though, it takes someone younger and fitter than myself to be off to all those elections and marches. And I wouldn't say a word against her, if she didn't damage herself in the process."

"You're very proud of her, aren't you?" he surmised.

"I am," she agreed, "Rather absurdly, as I can't take any credit for her. They're all her own ideas, I just find I happen to agree with them. Do you find me ridiculous, Richard?" she asked him, running her finger gently around the rim of her glass, obviously contemplating something.

"How so?" he asked, "Why on earth would I find you ridiculous?"

"Wanting a vote?"

"I should hardly vote Labour if I did," he replied stoutly, earning him a brief smile.

"Reginald thought I was silly," she confessed, "And that is precisely why women need a vote. They need some sort of power, some sort of freedom, especially when the men who control them find them silly. Not even ridiculous, _silly_."

He looked at her fondly. She was rambling a little, and unless he was very much mistaken the whiskey and her tiredness were beginning to have an effect. There was a slight pause.

"I'm not silly," she confirmed.

"No," he replied, "You're not. I think you're exactly right."

"Do you, Richard?" she asked, turning properly to him, "I _am_ glad. Because I think that if only Sybil's generation are allowed to vote, then they'll be able to take themselves seriously as I was never encouraged to do."

"You never needed any encouragement," he added with a smile.

"It's very important," she pressed, "Because then, and only then, will they be able to work properly. They'll be able to choose their ideas for themselves, they'll be able to do proper work, they'll be able to go into Parliament. They'll be able to choose who they marry for themselves so they don't end up stuck," her tone had grown vicious, and her eyes blurred a little with tears, "In awful empty marriages that they haven't chose. They'll be able to be individuals. And that's so very important. Isn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed quietly, again, "Yes, it is."

"Oh, Richard-..."

She reached across to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him gently down towards her. Their lips met softly and a little clumsily, but her kiss was warm. Her smell was lightly lavender scented and so deeply _her_. His hands rested tenderly on her shoulders.

"Isobel," he murmured as their kiss ended, "You've had a drink," he reminded her, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Oh yes," she replied, her voice, her breath close to the skin of his cheek, "I know."

He wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed her, drawing her body close to his, feeling immensely protective of her in that moment, wanting to hold her and feel her against him. She opened her mouth, moaning into their kiss. He knew beyond a doubt that the alcohol had made her bold as she nuzzled kisses against his unshaven cheek, taking hold of his hand so delicately with her fingers and drawing it gently inside her dressing gown, encouraging him to touch her breast.

He moved his hand back a little to look at her, and found her eyes blazing into his. Her eyes fluttered shut as he found her breast through her nightgown and squeezed gently. Taking advantage of her moment's unawareness, he leant forward, capturing her lips again for another kiss and she wrapped her arms back around his neck, pulling herself closer to his lips and his hand.

"Thank you for coming here," she whispered to him again, her lips close to his ear, "I don't know what I'd do without you, Richard."

She gasped a little as his thumb flicked her nipple through the thin fabric of her nightdress.

"Did you plan this?" he wanted to know, "When she came here injured. Just tell me, I won't be angry."

She looked at him for a moment.

"I didn't," she admitted, "But that's not to say I'm ruling it out for the future."

He smiled, and kissed her again. Her legs were gather up by his on the sofa, and bent at the knee, her thighs parted to allow his knees to rest between. He held her face so gently as they broke apart.

"Isobel-..."

Her hand rested on his chest, loosening his bowtie. Their eyes met.

And the front door slammed, and they flew apart. At the last moment, he decided he'd better discard the bowtie altogether, and dropped it into his pocket at the last moment before Matthew Crawley's face appeared in the doorway.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	14. Chapter 14

**This is the chapter when we are finally making a jump up to an M (!) I hope it's alright, I'm quite nervous about it. I'd love a review to know what you think. **

Things were difficult between them, there was no doubt about that. Working at the hospital with her was awkward; she began to call round at his office far less, to the point where he felt lucky in a day if he had seen her at all. It seemed she could not quite forgive him for making her leave. She was still professional, but stonily so. His only consolation in the affair was that Reginald was no longer at the hospital to observe and make remarks about it- though heaven only knew what she had told him in private. Things were difficult between them, and that was why he was tremendously surprised when on one evening he answered a knock at the door of his flat, to find her standing there before him in the doorway.

She was not wearing her usual nurse's uniform, but a white day dress and hat. She had come to him in white, he could not help thinking, and immediately forced himself to push the thought aside. On her face she wore a supremely determined look, and said nothing. Just stood there.

"Hello," he told her.

"Hello," she replied shortly, "Could I come in? I want to talk to you."

"Of course," he told her, stepping aside, thinking that that certainly made a change from the way they were at the moment.

She came inside, resting her hat down on the table by the door.

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" he asked, "Can I-...?"

"You know what it is," she replied quietly.

"I-..."

She turned her head, looking at him, anger flashing in her eyes.

"How could you do that?" she asked him in quite a different tone, nothing quiet or gentle in it, "How could you leave me like that?"

"Isobel-..."

"Don't!" she exclaimed and he quickly retraced the step he'd just taken towards her, "Don't touch me, Richard! How could you just send me off back to my husband like that? After everything we'd talked about? After everything I told you and everything that had happened that day. How could you possibly think that that was alright?"

"I didn't think, I don't have a reason," he told her, "Please, Isobel," he was nearly begging now, it was unnerving the effect just a look in her eye could have on him, "I know I shouldn't have acted the way I did-..."

She snorted, cold and disdainfully.

"That's quite an understatement, I think," she remarked in anger that savoured bitterly of wryness, "I can't understand how you could just close yourself off, how you could be so horribly cold after everything we'd talked about, everything we've done together, Richard. So you'll kiss me when it suits you but nothing more, not when I want it? Didn't you realise what I was trying to tell you? I _wanted_ you."

It hit him, what he had suspected all along, suspected but hadn't ever dared to believe, what she had almost told him before; her words hit him like a blow in the jaw, to the chest. There was silence for a moment, apart from her heavy, angry breathing.

"Yes," he replied quietly, "And it frightened me. It frightened me very much. I didn't know what to do."

"So you made me leave?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," he replied again, looking at the floor.

"And do you have any idea how that made me feel, Richard?" she asked, "After what we'd been through together that day?"

"Isobel, don't make this any harder than it has to be," he pleaded with her.

He could barely look at her, but she was staring at him, apparently horrified.

"Are you going to ask me to leave again?" she asked him.

"No."

"Then why should anything be difficult?" she asked him.

"Why?" he repeated incredulously, his voice raising alarmingly "Why? Isobel, you're married, you have a husband. A husband who I have known since we were little more than boys. Do you not think this is difficult for me?"

"For you?" she repeated, shouting now herself, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"Yes, for me," he replied, smarting, knowing already that he was probably doomed with this line of argument, "To feel the way I do about you, the wife of a colleague, a friend, someone I trained with. Oh God, it doesn't do to think of what it would do to Reginald if he knew we were here like this. I admit, sometimes he and I don't get on so well, but still. Do you have any idea how feeling this way about you makes me feel?"

Before he had realised what had happened, he received a sharp, stinging slap to the face.

"Shut up, Richard, just shut up!" she told him, "How dare you? How dare you think for a moment that I don't feel guilty too? Do you think I don't know? Do you think I don't feel ten times guiltier than you? He's my husband. I've had his child..."

"And I wish you had had mine," he finished abruptly for her, "That's why I feel guilty, because I know that and I still think it should have been me who met you. I wish it had been me."

"Well, it wasn't," she replied curtly.

"I know," he replied weakly.

There were a few moments of silence.

"Isobel-..." he murmured.

"Don't," she told him flatly, "Don't say my name like that and then tell me to leave, Richard. I can't bear it."

"I don't want you to leave," he told her, "I won't ask you to, not again."

She did not say anything.

"I want you to stay," he continued," I want-... Isobel, you know what I want. I've tried to stop myself wanting it and I can't. It still frightens me, but not in the same way."

Her eyes, which had been studying the tiles of the floor, flitted back up and looked into his face.

"So you can feel, then?" she asked. Her tone was trying to be stony, but her voice was unstoppably soft, trembling, almost; he looked up and her eyes seemed blurred, suddenly, by tears. Her lip seemed to tremble the smallest touch, "I did wonder... To kiss me like you do, and then not-..."

"Oh, Isobel, what I'm feeling-... What you're making me feel..."

"I'm past the point of guilt," she told him in little more than a whisper, "I feel it, so much. And this _is _difficult but...But I can push it aside-..."

"Because you feel something else more strongly?" he finished for her.

Their eyes met, and each drew a deep breath. She nodded wordlessly. There was silence for what felt like years.

"I want you."

And then they moved together, at the same time, with such force that it seemed almost as if she was going to hit him again. But this time he clutched her hand to his cheek, feeling her body flush against his, their lips meeting with a almost destructive pressure. Their arms fell around each other, holding on tightly. They were locked together, kissing fiercely, their tongues pushing into one another's mouths, exploring each other, moaning against each other's lips. Together they sank to their knees, kneeling up on the hard floor, embracing, kissing, kissing all the while. His hand wandered to her bosom, pressing her breasts through her dress and corset. His lips left hers and kissed the delicious rectangle of exposed skin above her dress, trailing his tongue as close to her neckline as he could. Her hands clutched at his head, her fingers tangling wildly into the back of his hair and her chest heaved with panting.

His hands wandered to her breasts again, lifting the fabric of her dress just as she pushed him, her hands on his shoulders, back onto the floor and his hands ripped the fabric clean away, revealing her corset to him. She did not care about the torn dress, it was forgotten in a moment as she pushed the sleeves off her shoulders and hooked herself out of the waist. Her legs straddled his middle, and his hands moved around the back to the fastenings of her corset as she made just as short work of his shirt as he had done of her dress.

"Isobel-..." he gasped, "Darling, it doesn't matter. Just help me get you out of this."

She consented, taking over the unfastening of her corset and throwing it away from them to join the torn shirt and dress in the corner of the room. Reverently, touching her as if she would break though everything about her presence was strong and vibrantly alive, he reached up and caressed her bare breasts, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. She groaned and ground herself against him, arching her back, pushing herself closer to his hands. Every fibre of her seemed to pulse and beat with life about him. The pleasure the feeling gave him made him want to growl, and he sat up, holding her hips in his hands and taking her breast into his mouth. Her head fell back and she continued to grind into him furiously.

"Darling-..." he whispered into the valley between her small, perfectly formed breasts, "Darling, don't. I don't know how much I can stand. Just let me-..." his hand slipped down her body into her underwear and pressed her, feeling her wetness against his fingers. She gasped, her head flying back again. "Just let me-..."

He undid his trousers and for a moment she got off him, letting him take them off, taking her own underwear off.

She sank back down to meet him, taking him inside her straight away. She felt so beautifully tight around him and they both gasped at the feeling. Her eyes were closed as she started to rock herself against him, riding him as he grasped her bottom, pulling her hips as flush against his as he could. They were so close, he knew neither of them could last long. He mouthed into her collarbone to stop himself crying out as she rose and fell against him.

She was murmuring, softly, quietly; incoherent, lustful syllables falling from her lips. He lifted his head, he wanted to see her eyes.

"Isobel," he gasped.

It worked.

She stared into him, her beautiful brown eyes fixed with desire.

"Oh, God," she whispered, "Richard, Richard, touch me, please. Just touch my breasts."

He cupped them both in his hands, thrusting hard up into her.

"Yes," she murmured, "Yes! Oh, God-..."

She stiffened against him, giving a cry as she tightened around him, her body shaking, her hips rocking uncontrollably.

"It's alright," he murmured, panting, his own hips still working furiously, "I've got you, darling, I've got you, Oh-..."

He felt himself explode inside her, and they both fell backwards onto the floor, their bodies heaving and shaking together.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	15. Chapter 15

**This chapter was very difficult, there wasn't much of a plan for it. I hope it's ok. **

Over the next few days they were so busy at the hospital that he hardly had the time to speak to her. Also, he thought, she was probably too busy to concern herself with him just at the moment; the news that Matthew had proposed to Lady Mary on the night of Lady Sybil's accident had spread like wildfire through the village, and he supposed the issue would be occupying her more than most. In fact, he hardly spoke to her at all on any subject other than the patients until he managed to get the chance to ask her if she also had an invitation to dinner at the big house. She said she did.

"That's wonderful," he told her, "I'll see you up there."

"I'll be looking forward to it," she told him, with just a hint of a mischievous little smile, which told him that she had not forgotten their last meeting, despite the great number of things that seemed to have happened that night.

And nor had he, not by a long way. Before then, he had been not quite good but at least passable at not thinking about her... in the way they had been together before. But now, after a few stolen kisses and touches, he could not stop thinking of the way they had lain together, how it had been to have her in his bed. He dreamt of her. Saw with a vividness that shocked him her tumbling hair, her beautiful delicate skin, every curve of her figure. He remembered her face perfectly; her parted lips, the wild look in her eyes. Those moments with her in the sitting room of Crawley House had awoken a dormant beast inside him. He barely thought he was to be trusted alone with her now; he would not swear that he could control himself. On many mornings he woke up hard and drenched in sweat.

They still had not said anything about what had happened, and as time pressed on it would only become more difficult to do so. But still, he so much looked forward to seeing her for dinner. The mere promise of her presence was enough. He was in love with her as much now as he had ever been, and her being there was enough to light up a room.

And she did, literally, he realised as they arrived for dinner at the same time. He had just made his way into the hall when she and Matthew followed him in, except it took him a moment to realise that Matthew was there at all as she handed Carson her coat to reveal that she was wearing a new deep blue evening dress. She looked like the night sky in it, with the gentle lunar glow of her silver and golden hair. She looked like a goddess. He did not wait for them all to go up to the drawing room; he moved over quickly to kiss her hand.

She watched him do so with a smile dancing gently on her lips.

"Good evening, Richard," she told him quietly.

He met her eyes.

"Hello, Isobel," he replied, his voice low and serious, matching her formal tone.

Somehow, he did not mean it to, his glance seemed to reprove her a little- not an easy feat. She did not bristle in the slightest, nor did she try to reprove him in return. She seemed to check herself a little, her look became just a little chastened.

They looked at each other for a moment, until Matthew, standing behind her, cleared his throat. Isobel turned her head towards him.

"Sorry, darling," she told him, "Let's all go up," she said to both of them.

Richard walked beside her, both of them following Matthew up the stairs at some distance, unable quite to keep up with his quick stride.

"He's a little upset," Isobel whispered to him, "I'm sorry if he's a little abrupt."

"Why?" he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Mary hasn't given him an answer yet," she replied, "It's making him nervous."

He nodded quietly, accepting what she said.

"I'd like a chat," she continued, "After dinner. With you. If you've the time. You're not rushing off?"

"No," he replied, "I'll stay for as long as you like."

"Good," she told him, smiling, as they reached the landing, "I think it would do me the power of good to talk to you. You calm me down. I've missed you, Richard, this last week," she added almost as an afterthought, as if what had gone before hadn't been enough to enthral him entirely.

…**...**

He stayed in the dining room for a few moments with the other gentlemen, declining a cigar and only taking one small glass of port. It would look strange if he left immediately, but still, he wanted to see Isobel as soon as he could. At the earliest possible moment, he slipped away to meet her on the terrace outside the drawing room. He knew she had a habit of walking there after dinner; because the other ladies found it too cold and dark she said it guaranteed her a place of quiet.

They stood just outside the light from the windows; enough to see each other by but so they could not be seen from the inside. Her eyes were bright, and she held a glass in her hand.

"What's that?" he asked her.

"Whiskey," she replied, "Don't tell Cousin Violet. Do you want some to keep the cold out?"

"Just a drop then," he replied, and she handed him the glass.

His lips smiled as he drank his sip, and remained like that until she could see.

"What?" she asked him.

"We're being very furtive, aren't we?" he remarked, "Skulking out here in the dark and sharing the same glass of whiskey like two students who've broken into father's drinks cabinet for the first time."

"Did you ever do that?" she asked.

"My father didn't have a drinks cabinet," he replied, "Just a bottle of whiskey in his desk drawer."

"You rather take after him," she remarked with a smile.

"Yes," he replied wryly, "Except I'm not as chronic as he was."

She looked at him for a second and saw he was being serious, he was not speaking figuratively.

"Oh, Richard, I'm sorry," she told him, looking aghast.

"It doesn't matter," he told her, "You weren't to know. I never told you."

There was quiet for a few moments.

"We're good at being furtive," she said at last, "It's not like we haven't had plenty of practice."

He smiled at her.

"No, you're right about that," he agreed, "Sometimes I thin we might be better at being furtive than we are at being honest."

There was too much truth in that statement to argue with; too much to even discuss. Another silence followed.

"Tell me about Matthew," he told her.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes," he assured her, "I can tell the whole business with him is worrying you."

"Not worrying so much," she corrected, "More like bothering. He just hates it when things are undecided. He gets that from me, I'm just the same. I like a clear course of action."

"I know you do," he replied rather dryly, without thinking about it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

He could do nothing but look at her rather sheepishly. She raised her eyebrows, and decided to leave that remark.

"Even so, I don't think the wait will do him much harm in the long run," she told him.

"How so?"

"Far better that she's sure, that she's made up her own mind on the matter than rushing into it to keep everybody else happy," she turned and rested her back against the stonework on the edge of the terrace, "Let's be frank about it, I have absolutely no wish to see my son's marriage scuppered by the same thing that scuppered mine. That would be too cruel."

"Yes," Richard agreed quietly, "I think it probably would."

"I'd go as far as to say that the longer she takes, the happier I am, if it wasn't making him so unhappy in the meantime," she surmised.

"Absolutely," he agreed, and then after a moment, "I'm glad we're waiting. No, really, I am. Like so say, far better that we're sure."

She was looking at his rather blankly.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," she told him, and he could not tell whether or not she was being serious or just a touch coy, "I didn't know that we were waiting."

He stared at her rather dumbly. She stared back at him, and now he had no doubt that she was teasing him.

"The last time we were together we certainly weren't waiting," she reminded him.

He thought she might have utterly flawed him by bringing that up.

"God-...Isobel," somehow, he was short of breath just thinking about it, with her, here, watching him like that, "I-..."

"What?" the look in her eyes was positively dangerous now.

"I want to kiss you."

Her face betrayed no sign of registering the remark except that enhanced the burning of her eyes.

"If you do that here," and if he was not very much mistaken, her voice sounded just a touch husky, "You'll have to bear in mind that everyone in the drawing room might see. That and the fact that I might topple backwards of this wall."

"That at the moment is a risk I'm willing to take," he told her, his head blurred so much by the sight of her lip inches away from his that he had to add, "The former. Not the latter."

She gave a little laugh.

"Oh, Richard," she murmured, looking up at him, the look on his face, "Alright, then. But hold me, don't let me fall back."

"Isobel," he whispered, sinking his lips to hers, drawing her into his arms and embracing her passionately as she sat against the stonework.

His heart hammered so wildly that he thought she might be able to feel it where her chest pressed against his. Their lips moved frantically against each other, and he held her all the tighter.

"I can't bear being without you," he whispered into her hair, still holding her, as they broke apart, "This past week, it's been-..."

"I know," she agreed, "It's madness."

He kissed her forehead gently. Her hand brushed up and down his back.

"Let's just wait until all this business with Matthew gets sorted out," she told him, "One way or another."

"And then what?" he asked.

"Then we go from there," she told him.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	16. Chapter 16

**I really hope everyone's still enjoying the story. I know the "modern" half of the story is a bit slow-going compared to the Africa part but it's the way it works; it has to be in there. Anyway, here is a bit of the Africa side now. I'd really love a review to keep me going. **

"Darling," he murmured quietly, what felt like hours later but what could have really been no longer than drawn-out moments of disbelief and ragged breathing, "Darling, would you mind if we moved onto my bed?"

She was still on top of him and he was still inside her. Silently, though, they disentangled themselves slowly and he heard her groan with the loss of him as she rolled flat onto her back. He got up, offering his hand to help her up, and they moved the few paces to slip into his bedroom and between the clean sheets of his bed, leaving all of their clothes strewn about on the floor. It was so hot in the room but the sheets were cool.

His arm wrapped round her head- the other lying across her breasts- and tracing her forehead smoothly with his thumb as she lay flat on her back. Her hair had come tumbling down, and lay wildly splayed on the pillow. As he nuzzled against her skin he smelt her usual lavender smell mingled with the beautiful scent of their sweat and lust and love. He kissed her temple and she smiled.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

""Yes, Richard," she told him, sighing, her eyes closing, the corners of her mouth still smiling, almost sadly, "Yes."

He did not know whether to really believe her. She, her body, looked more relaxed than he had ever seen her, but still, the sadness in her smile... She said she was alright. He would have to believe her. All he could think of was how beautiful she was, lying beside him, her beautiful feminine curves just brushing lightly against his body. He could not deny that he had dreamt of this, and the reality had by far outshone any expectations he could possibly have had. It had been beyond his wildest dreams, he had been naïve to think that he could ever imagine the reality of her-...Of them making love together. It was best not to think about this at all, he realised. He could barely make himself accept that it had really happened.

She sensed his uncertainty, and smiled more firmly for him.

"Of course I'm alright," she told him.

There was silence for a moment, him still drinking in the sight of her, every glimpse seeming to reveal so much, so that he was overloaded, overwhelmed, drowning in her. She was so real, and nothing else was.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, "Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

"No," she replied softly, "Not the way you just did."

He knew what she meant; how could she have known that his every movement, his every sinew ached with love for her and her beauty? But then, he supposed, it was probably obvious.

"Like this?" he asked her, planting a gentle kiss on her neck, "Like this?" Another on her collarbone.

"Yes," she murmured quietly, "Never like that before."

He pulled away watching her face, propped up on his elbows above her body. Her eyes were closed again.

"You're incredible," he told her, "No one has ever made love to me like that. I'm not even sure how this happened."

Her eyes opened slowly, looking into his. Now when he looked into her eyes he felt he had never known a person, never wanted to know a person, like he knew her. He felt she was a part of him.

"I know, my darling," she told him, "I know. No one ever has to me either. Well, there's only ever been... and he-..." she trailed off, biting her lip a little to try and stop herself smiling too much as she met his eyes.

He had to admit, he was a little relieved, and vaguely proud, to hear it. He bent back down, pressing his lips to hers.

"Richard, darling," she told him as they broke apart and he lay back down beside her, his arms draping protectively back over her again, "I know I told you that I didn't want to go, and believe me, I don't. But I'm going to have to soon. I will have to get back or they'll start to miss me."

She couldn't say her husband's name, not as his hand trailed slowly downwards over her stomach.

"How long do you have?" he asked her gently, "How long do you think you can stay?"

She glanced at the clock at his bedside.

"Maybe twenty minutes."

He kissed the side of her face.

"That's enough time for me to make love to you again," he told her, "Or would you rather I held you? I will hold you forever if you want me to. Just tell me, my love," he murmured into her skin, burying his face in her beautiful neck, "Just tell me."

"Richard," she replied, her voice light and breathy, deep with moans as his mouth nuzzled her jawbone, "Never. I'm never going to want you to not make love to me."

His hand had been travelling gradually downwards all this while, brushing every inch of skin as he went, and her hips arched off the bed as his fingers reached between her legs, brushed her gently, teasing her just a little. She gasped in surprise. He moved his body over hers again, kissing her lips, pressing his hand against her, feeling her jut her pelvis against his fingers and moan into his mouth. It drove him nearly wild.

He shrugged the bedsheets off them, kissing his way down her face, her neck, over her breasts and stomach, tracing the line of her hip with his mouth, teasing her by learning her body ever so slowly until his mouth finally joined his hand at her centre. He heard her gasp as he sank his mouth into her, into the delightful taste of her, and she draped her legs languidly over his shoulders.

He prized her folds apart with his tongue, dipping his tongue inside her and he felt her hips almost vibrate against his face. She rocked herself back and forwards shamelessly, wantonly, and his arms draped around her hips. He could hear her calling his name.

"Richard," she moaned, "Richard, I need you. I want you inside me now."

Oh. Hearing Isobel Crawley beg to him. He could never have imagined this, and he wanted her so much too, he was painfully hard for her, he could never deny her anything. He moved back up her body, kissing her lips and pushing inside her with as much control as he could manage.

He looked down at her, at her body under him, wondering if she had any idea how perfect she was, wondering if she knew-... But she did know, and she was moving too, under him, as he moved backwards and forwards inside her, thrusting in, desperate for the feel of her, for more, more, more of her. He knew he could never have enough, not now he had had this, not with the taste of her still filling his mouth. Nothing was ever going to be enough now. Normally it would have frightened him, but now it just drove him on. He kissed her, making her groan with the taste of herself. He would give her everything, willingly, he would do anything for this woman.

"Isobel," he gasped, "Isobel, darling, let go."

She was biting her lip, trying to stop herself. Carefully, he moved his hand to touch her breast, and she let go with a gasp, she broke. She clung to his body as she rocked blindly once more and, panting hard, he felt himself climax again too within a few thrusts. He collapsed on top of her, pressing their shaking bodies incredibly close together.

"Oh, God," he heard her say, in something between a wail and a moan, as her body juddered to a halt, and her hand stayed clinging tightly to his shoulder, "Richard, Richard."

His breath trembling, he kissed her forehead tenderly.

"I know, my darling," he whispered, "I know."

Her face shifted a little under his. She was still kissing his face, breathlessly, clumsily, with swollen lips. She was crying.

He tried to shift his weight away, worried that he was hurting her, but she pulled his back almost fiercely. She was crying, she was very upset. Her body jolted gently under his with sobs. He touched her shoulder tenderly, looking at her in helpless dismay.

"Never leave me," she whispered to him, her voice wrought and fragile, shaking, "I know I have to go, but Richard, never leave me, never, I can't... Please, never leave me."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	17. Chapter 17

**A word on reviews: I will write anyway regardless of however many I do or don't get, but I really do appreciate them and find them really helpful. At the moment I'm largely clueless as to how people are finding the story. I'd really appreciate it if you could find the time to leave a review, and thank you so much to everyone who does. (I'm not trying to be a nag, though I may sound like one). This chapter may be a bit strange but it will all come to make sense (hopefully). I hope you like it.**

He found her in his office at the hospital when he returned from the big house. Increasingly, it seemed, she had taken to sitting at his desk and, occasionally, doing his work; it was only inevitable that some of his work got mixed up with hers given that they were working at such close quarters. Far be it from him to complain about that, and it made him smile to see her sitting there, as yet oblivious to his presence. He crossed to stand beside her and bent down, kissing her on the cheek.

"Hello," he addressed her quietly, his face still hovering close to her ear.

"Hello," she replied, "You've been away a long time. Was anything the matter?"

"Well-..."

The unease in his tone caused her to look up properly for the first time.

"What is it?" she asked, "No one's sick, are they?"

"No," he assured her, "No one's sick, not exactly, but-..."

"I think you'd better sit down," she advised him, surveying him carefully.

"Good idea," he replied, pulling up a chair to the end of the desk and sitting down, his hands resting on his knees. She leant forwards a little, making it clear that she was ready to listen to him. The thing was, he was not sure if he could tell her.

"You see, the thing is," he began, "I'm not sure if I ought to tell you. You understand, confidentiality and so on."

"Yes, of course I do," she replied, "Usually, I know you might be able to outline the case to me, but as seen as I as good as know who it refers to..."

"Well, quite," he agreed, "On the other hand," he added after a second thought, "They are your family, you are bound to be the first they tell, so it's debatable how far confidentiality would be in breach."

"Richard, it's alright," she told him, smiling, "Really, you don't have to tell me if it's going to get you into trouble. I can wait, I'm sure."

"That's not what I'm concerned about," he told her, frowning to himself, thinking hard, "You might need to know. After all, you're much more likely to be present should there be a complication. And, all things considered, I don't think we can rule that out."

"Richard," she told him a little sharply, "Richard, darling, you're scaring me a little bit talking about things like that."

If anything got his attention it was the endearment that slipped so quickly, thoughtlessly, so naturally from her lips. He met her eyes and saw genuine concern there.

"I think you'd better just tell me," she instructed him clearly, "You've got me worried now. What is it? Sybil isn't off getting herself into danger again, is she? I told Mary to bring her to me if she did."

He smiled gently at her; he could more than imagine how that conversation might have gone.

"No," he replied, "It isn't Lady Sybil. It's Lady Grantham."

"Cousin Cora?"

He nodded.

"She's expecting a child."

Her mouth fell open before she could stop it.

"She's not, she can't, she's..."

"About the same age you were," he reminded her softly, "In fact, I don't see why I should disguise the fact from you, she's fourteen years younger than you are, almost to the month. She's the same age as when..." he did not need to finish, and just said, "It's perfectly possible."

In her surprise she had forgotten that it was possible, she had forgotten it had happened. His words made her flush a little and she bowed her head just a fraction. There was quiet for a few moments.

"Are they both happy about it?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.

"They're ecstatic," he told her.

She sniffed heartily, and for a rash moment he thought she might be crying but when she looked at him a second later her eyes were dry.

"Then it's wonderful, isn't it?" she asked him.

"It is," he agreed, trying to hold the chief part of the emotions he presently felt back and focus purely on what she was obviously rejoicing in, not having put two and two together, "At least, I think so. But, Isobel, you do realise, if she has a boy, this could change everything?"

"How do you... oh," her face changed profoundly with realisation, "You mean Matthew would no longer be Robert's heir?"

He nodded. He had thought of nothing else on the way here, the thought that if this baby was a boy, Matthew would not longer have a role to play in the estate, and Isobel might have to leave.

For a few moments, she too looked quite worried but then her expression lifted.

"But we'll stay anyway," she told him, her lips breaking into rather a relieved smile, "Matthew is going to marry Mary. So it'll all be fine," she told him, reaching her hand across the desk and covering his to try and reassure him- he had to admit, it worked-, "I can pass on being the mother of an earl anyway, if I'm honest. You know things like that don't matter to me anyway."

He smiled at her as fully as he could for a second.

"It might not matter to you, but it doesn't mean it doesn't to someone else..."

"What, Matthew? Matthew was never keen in the first-..."

"No, not Matthew," he corrected her, "I've no doubts about Matthew on that score. But have you considered, Lady Mary might not be overjoyed at the prospect of marrying a common country lawyer when she thought she was marrying the heir to her father's title?"

She looked at him for a second with an expression of amused disbelief.

"That's a little bit cynical, isn't it, Richard?" she asked him, "I would hope she's marrying my son and not his social position."

"Of course you would, I would too," he told her, "I _do_ hope it. But that doesn't mean that she is."

He sighed heavily. The look on her face was such that he did not know what to say to her for a second. Conversations like these he did not find very easy.

"I'm not trying to create obstacles," he told her, "I'm just trying to think ahead. I don't want... I don't want anything to split us up again, and I'm just trying to imagine what might so we can combat it. Do you understand that?"

"Of course I do," she replied, taking his hand in hers, bowing her head and gently kissing it, "And that's exactly what I don't want either. Just, I think I might have had a bit more of a shock than you have. My brain's not quite keeping up."

He smiled at her.

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. Thank you for telling me. I'm glad you did. I feel ready to face it now, whatever happens, though I don't quite know what to think."

His lips quirked in a mischievous smile.

"About which part?" he wanted to know.

Their eyes met and she looked at him very levelly until she couldn't any more, and a rogue giggle escaped from her lips.

"Don't, Richard," she told him seriously when she had quietened herself, "Behave yourself. I don't know what to think about any of it. Oh, but a baby will be nice, won't it?"

"Yes," he agreed, "It will. I think that's what everyone needs at the moment, what with all of the talk of a war. A baby will have everyone's spirits up no end."

"Yes," she agreed, though sounding less certain a than she had a moment earlier, the enthusiasm in her voice tailing off every second, her tone becoming more serious, "A baby. And a war."

She met his eyes again, and held them for long moments. He thought the probability that they were not thinking the same thing was almost none existent.

"It's not right, is it?" she asked, a deep frown lining her beautiful face, "That such extremely happy and sad things invariably clash. Exactly the same, _exactly _the same happens, again and again and again. Is it?"

"No," he agreed sadly, "It's not. There's nothing more unfair."

There was a heavy silence.

"Isobel?" he asked her after long moments of debating whether or not he should, but in the end he _had_ to know, it was what he had wanted to know for years, "If we'd had …had a child... Would it have made any difference?"

Her head turned sharply towards him, and she nothing short of stared at him for a few seconds. He somehow got the impression that something inside her had snapped. But he did not flinch or waver.

"Would it?" he repeated firmly, "Isobel, I have to know if it was just... that it was Matthew or if-... Would it have made any difference if you had held our baby in your arms?"

She was still staring at him, her lips parted slightly.

"Why do you-..." her voice faltered, "What do you think?" she asked, her voice suddenly hard and almost unkind.

"I don't know," he stated blankly, "I wouldn't have asked you if I had any idea at all. If our baby had been born would you have left Reginald and come to me?"

"How am I supposed to know?" she almost shouted at him, making him do a double take for a second, "I don't know what I would have done, because it _didn't _happen. Richard, I can't believe you're asking me this; you must know what it's like for me, you swore you wouldn't."

"I'm sorry," he replied curtly, "And I do know. But you must understand, it's almost as bad for me, after all-..."

"No," she replied bluntly, "I don't understand how it could be. I don't understand at all. And I don't think you do either, Richard."

He did not know what to say. There was a deathly silence between the two of them. Then she stood up very suddenly.

"I think I'd better go," she told him curtly, picking up her papers, rather flustered, "Matthew will be wondering where I am."

"Isobel-..."

"Goodnight Richard," she told him sharply, "I have to get back to my son."

And then she was gone, and wanted very much to kick himself, sitting there listening to the sound of her footsteps sharply receding down the corridor.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter, they meant a lot and I enjoyed every one of them. Yes, all will be revealed in time (it would be sort of silly if it wasn't). This chapter was quite tricky to write but hopefully it's ok. Hope you like it.**

In the early evening there was a sharp knock on the door of his flat. Sensing urgency about the sound, he opened it quickly, and, seeing that it was her standing there, let her in without hesitation or questioning. Only once the door was shut behind them both did he speak; he did not want to be caught out because they were loitering on the doorstep.

"What is it?" he asked her, "Are you alright?"

"Yes,"she told him, she sounded a little breathless, "I'm alright. Haven't you heard?"

"What?"

"Reginald's been sent to the front again. Well, they asked him and he's gone voluntarily. Hasn't anybody told you."

He stared at her; he had not heard, no one had told him. What was more he did not know how to feel about it at all, though instinctively the notion that Crawley was gone, even temporarily, made his pulse race and his heart soar. He supposed how he felt would very much depend on how she was feeling about it. He was quiet, watching her face closely. After a moment, she gave him a tentative smile.

"He's gone now?" he asked, seeking confirmation.

She nodded. "So we can be together. For a little while. So long as we're discreet."

Her words made it inevitable; he could not stop a smile forming on his lips, and he raised his hand to gently brush against her cheek.

"And how do you feel?" he asked.

"I'm alright," she repeated slowly, closing her eyes, nuzzling against his fingertips.

"Really?" he pressed, looking at her very seriously, "I know you hate it when he's at the front."

"There's nothing I can do now," she pointed out, "He's gone. Richard, we'll talk about it later. But now let's just-..."

She broke off, leaning forward, kissing him.

"Yes," he murmured against her lips, "Whatever you want."

She pressed closer to him, stopping him from speaking. In the seconds that she leant away from him, trying to catch her breath, he surprised her by lifting her into his arms. Their eyes met for a second, and then she beamed at him, resting her forehead against his, and they were the only two people in the world, and without another word he carried her to his bedroom as if she were his bride.

…**...**

They lay together side by side, both watching the dimming of the evening light from the window on his whitewashed ceiling. They had just made love, and had the thin linen bedsheet thrown untidily over themselves. They were holding hands, their fingers locked together. Then she turned her head slowly and planted a single kiss on his shoulder. He turned his head a fraction to look at her.

"Are you alright, my darling?"

"Yes," she sighed gently, pitched between sadness and contentment.

"Do you want to talk about it now?" he asked.

There was a silence. She turned over to lie on her side, resting her hand on his chest, and he tilted his body inwards too to look at her.

"I've stopped caring," she said finally.

He waited for her to go on, but she did not.

"How so?" he asked. He pretended not to notice that his voice wavered a little with uncertainty at the words she'd just used.

But she seemed to pick up on it. Her lips stretched languidly into an indulgent smile, which completely receded again before she said:

"About Reginald."

He almost wished he could believe that.

"I don't believe you," he told her plainly.

She stared back at him for a second.

"Yes," she agreed a moment later, "And you're right not to, I suppose. I just feel-... I feel so different. It's not just that I'm not in love with him, I don't think I ever was, but that I can't love him at all any more." A frown creased her brow, "We came out here to heal people, we both did. And he's gone up to the front to fight." She looked at him very plainly, "He isn't even there as a medic. He's gone up to the front as a captain of infantry."

He had to admit, he was very shocked to hear that.

"He's gone to kill people," she surmised, "I was very angry when I left the hotel. He isn't the man I married any more."

Curiously, resting his hand on her shoulder, he gently brushed the tips of his fingers down her arm and continued under the bedsheet, taking hold of her left hand and bringing it up to look at it. What he had expected to see was so. She was not wearing her wedding ring any more. They both looked at her empty finger. As he let her hand drop, she allowed it to fall softly onto his bare chest and rested it there.

She continued, and he just lay there; listening to her, gazing at her.

"It is too late for us," she stated, "For me and Reginald. We'll never be the same again. We're too different now, from each other and from our old selves. I don't want to be the same. There was a time when, if something like this had happened, I would have been able to just reach out, kiss him, tell him what he was doing, and he would listen to me. And it would have been alright. But I can't do that. He can't listen to me, and I can't-... I just can't..."

"Is that why you come to me?" he asked levelly.

"No, Richard," she told him firmly, "Don't think that for a moment. Although," she added as an afterthought, "I do see why you might."

His unspoken plea for what on earth he was supposed to think in that case passed silently between them. She closed her eyes, sighed deeply, still touching his chest.

"I can't explain it, Richard," she told him, "I can't put it into words."

There was a silence.

"You are the life I should have had," she told him, "You are the life I wanted. And meeting you wasn't the cause of my marriage falling apart, I think it would have happened anyway. But perhaps more slowly," she conceded. Another pause. "Reginald told me stories, all kinds of stories about things he saw at the front the last time. They are what make him a hero in the eyes of the rest of the world. But that's ridiculous. To me, you're the hero, Richard," she told him softly, without a hint of affectation or pretension, the word had never sounded so genuine as when she spoke it, "You repair the damage that people like Reginald do, and don't expect a word of praise for it. You're so wonderful, you're so brave."

"I'm not a hero," he told her quietly, "And if I was, you would be one too."

"Well, then you can't be," she told him sadly, though with a smile on her lips, "Because I'm certainly not."

There was quiet between them.

"When the war's over I want to stay with you," she told him quietly.

He looked at her sharply.

"Do you mean that?" he asked.

She seemed to melt into silent tears under his gaze.

"Oh, yes, Richard," her voice cracked a little and a tear rolled down her cheek, "I mean that very much. I want to so badly. But you know I can't."

He exhaled deeply, wrapping his hand gently in the hair at the back of her head and pulling her towards him so that her head rested on his chest. She shook a little against him and he rubbed her arms gently, trying to soothe her, buried his face in her hair and kissed her.

"Darling," he whispered when she had quietened a little, "Darling, we have now. And no one can take it from us."

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes.

"You're right," she agreed, "Of course, you're right. I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this."

"Don't be sorry," he told her, not adding that it heart him a little to hear her talking about Reginald, as it was a reminded in every moment that it was Reginald and Isobel who were married, and not-..."Isobel, I don't want you to force yourself to do anything when you're with me, and that includes feeling what you don't want to feel, and acting as if you feel something else. If you want to cry your heart out, I will be here to hold you. And I'm glad we can talk about these things. But just remember that no one can take this time from us. That's something to be glad about at least, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," she insisted, smiling at him, wiping her eyes, "Thank you, Richard."

"It's alright, my love," he told her, wrapping his arms tightly back around her and holding her to his chest, "I would do anything for you. Anything."

She lifted her head, kissing his jaw.

"Make love to me?" she asked softly.

He bowed his head back down so that their lips met, kissing her as thoroughly, as passionately as he could, rolling her onto her back so that he leant over her, her still wrapped in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his, moved up and locked around his waist, pushing them close together. He kissed every inch of her he could, planting soft open-mouthed kisses on her beautiful delicate skin. He touched her breasts, lavished them with kisses as she moved and moaned beneath him, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. Her breathing was ragged and uneven. For a second her paused, watching her like this, and then latched his mouth back onto her collarbone, kneading both of her pert breasts between their bodies, knowing that if he did not silence himself now he would blurt out that he loved her, that she was the best thing in his life, that had ever been in his life, that he could not live without her.

He slipped his hand between their bodies and touched her, and she arched her back off the bed, tilting her hips and pushing them flush against his. He was hard against her thigh, the contact driving him nearly wild, but he calmed himself enough to push away from her a little so he could push two fingers inside her. She gasped, and he moved his hand frantically, pushing his thumb against her nub until she came, hard, and rocking against his hand. He heard his name tumbling from her lips in breathy moans, and he sank back down to her side, kissing her softly, pulling her into his arms.

Before long she was kissing him gently again, kissing him temptingly, her hand brushing down his chest until she was touching him where he needed her. Their eyes met, and it caused a shiver of pleasure to run through him. She took advantage of his moment's distraction, pushing him flat onto his back and straddling his waist. He gasped at the feeling of her wetness brushing against his stomach and she gave a little gasp of pleasure herself. She was being deliberately seductive, and he sat up capturing her lips for a kiss before she guided her back down with a hand on his shoulder.

She paused for a second, so near to him, and he chose that moment to slip his hand forward, touching her between her legs. She keened with pleasure, and her body almost keeled, and it seemed the only thing she could possibly do in that moment was sink her body down to meet his and take him inside her.

They moved against each other, their eyes never parting. He was so in love with her, and he knew she was in love with him. She had to be. This couldn't exist otherwise. He saw it in her eyes as she looked at him in the moments before her eyes flitted shut with pleasure as she rose and fell against him, feeling every inch of him inside her. This was what no one could take from him, these hours when they belonged to no one but each other, this happiness. He had never felt like this before, he had never known anything could be like this. He closed his eyes, he could hardly look at her, the love he felt was overwhelming.

He spilled himself inside her and she collapsed on his body within seconds of one another. And as he held her, all he could think of was how much he loved her, and this, what they had done, how it was marked forever on both of them, and that no one could take that from him. And therefore they could never take her.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Thank you so much for your reviews. This chapter is for awakeandwondering. **

She appeared once again in the doorway of his office, the door was ajar in order to let the breeze through. He stopped in his tracks, letting his pen drop onto the desk, rolling blandly away unnoticed. They looked at each other for long moments. She was leaning her shoulder against the doorframe and looked almost shy, her lip bitten between her teeth and her hands fidgeting a little as she clasped them together. All of her clothes were pale creamy summer clothes and the slight blush appearing on her cheek did not go unnoticed. Her manner was so very gentle compared to the last time they had seen each other properly, here in this room, and he opened his mouth, about to speak to her, but she beat him to it.

"Richard, I hate this," she told him, still hovering in the doorway, "I'm sorry."

His face dissolved into a smile or relief, and of great happiness, getting up from behind his desk and walking towards her.

"I'm sorry too," he told her, "Isobel, for heaven's sake, come inside."

He saw a smile on her lips too as she hurriedly crossed the threshold and shut the door behind herself. For a moment, she rested back against the closed door and he saw her breathe a sigh of relief that moved her whole body. She leant back, looking at him.

"Richard," she said, a smile on her lips but her tone one of being completely in earnest, "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," he assured her, "You don't need to say it any more, Isobel."

"But I never should have said those things to you," she continued to insist, her expression making the depth of her distress obvious.

"And I shouldn't have asked what I did," he returned equally earnestly, taking a step towards her, taking hold of her hands, "There's no need for you to apologise."

"I wasn't ready," she told him, "To talk about-..."

"I know," he told her in reply, "I know that now. And I won't ask you again. Maybe one day you'll feel ready to talk about it yourself?" he asked gently, "And I won't say another word about it until you do."

She smiled at him, nodding wordlessly for a second. He smiled back and pulled her into his arms properly, feeling with gratitude the ease with which she relaxed against him, sinking against his chest.

"I was so worried," he murmured into her hair, "I thought I'd lost you again because I'd said something stupid and thoughtless."

"It wasn't stupid" she told him again, "I understand why you wanted to ask. And you haven't lost me, Richard. I promise you that."

They pulled apart slowly, looking at each other, smiling rather shyly, both feeling a little emotional.

"I want to make it up to you," she told him, "Would you like to come over for dinner?"

"There's nothing for you to make up," he assured her, "But that doesn't mean I'm saying no to dinner," he added after a moment, "I'd like to. When?"

"Matthew is going for dinner at the big house the night after tomorrow. I haven't told them what I'm doing yet but I'll make my excuses."

"That sounds nice," he told her, "Thank you."

"You'll be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

…**...**

He brought some more flowers for her. She put them in a glass vase and left them on the linen tablecloth as they ate their dinner.

She listened attentively as he talked to her properly about developments in the plans for hospital in the event of war with Germany which they had not discussed properly.

"So you've said you'll resume your old commission?" she asked him.

"I have," he replied, "Purely in a medical capacity. And I've requested to be posted here rather than abroad. Is that alright with you?" he asked her, seriously wanting her opinion.

She looked at him in some amusement.

"Even if it wasn't, it wouldn't be my place to say," she told him, "It's very much your choice, Richard. I'm not your wife. Even if I were, you know I would respect your personal choice in the end, however much I disagreed with it."

A heavy silence followed. They both knew that to say she was not his wife was only true in a strictly literal sense. The moment that remark was read figuratively it was obvious; never in his life would he have gone to any other woman with such a question, for such advice. She was the only wife he would have ever had.

They exchanged a brief look.

"Please, Isobel," he asked her, a little pleadingly, "Tell me, honestly. What do you think?"

She cast him a sideways glance, taking a sip of her wine.

"I think it's very decent of you," she told him, "There's no need for you to do it, but I think it's very good of you to want to support the war effort. I won't go as far as right, I'm rather off war at the moment, but it's very good and very selfless of you. And I'm glad you'll be here," she added, "Rather than abroad."

"Yes," he agreed, "So am I. I expect they'll approve my request. I can't imagine there's much room for an old fogey like me up at the front line, even as a medic."

She cast him another amused glance and shook her head a little in slight exasperation. He returned her look and accepted the implicit reproach. But then he saw her face relax a little and it did so into an expression of sadness.

"What's the matter?" he asked her.

There was a pause, and she gave a small sigh. He knew that look on her face; she only ever wore it when she was thinking about her son.

"Are you worried about Matthew?" he asked her.

This time when her eyes slipped sideways in his direction, they betrayed gratitude at him having brought the subject up.

"I rather worry that Matthew has inherited his father's grasp of what sort of heroics wartime requires," she told him, dryly.

His expression remained solemn. The unspoken implication of her words was that she was scared that he was going to go tearing off to the front and get himself killed. It was a rational fear, a very real and sensible fear, of that he was certain. And he did not know what to say to her in reply.

She looked at him with a deep frown.

"He doesn't understand what war is," she told him, distress creeping into her voice, "All he's seen of it is the medals his father brought back from South Africa. I mean, which young man wouldn't want something similar if he didn't understand where they came from? Perhaps I should have been more honest with him when he was younger about what it was like, but I wanted to protect him from even knowing about all of that," she looked at him rather despairingly, "Richard, what should I do?" she asked, "I've always supported him in his own decisions. Can I suddenly stop?"

"I don't know," he replied seriously. There was a moment's pause before he said, in a lighter voice, "But you realise, it may not even come to that? Not if he marries Mary. I doubt he'd want to leave then."

She smiled at him rather sadly.

"Yes, there is that," she conceded, though her tone suggested that she thought hope on that score was rather slight.

There was another silence between them. And then a small rather tired smile slipped onto her face, and stayed.

"I'm sorry," she told him, "These are my problems, not yours. I shouldn't be burdening you with them."

"Nonsense," he told her, "Your problems are my problems."

Her smile broadened, and her hand, tentatively, moved across the table to where his lay, gently covering the back of his hand with her palm.

"Thank you," she told him, a wealth of sincerity in her voice.

Not another word needed to be spoken between them, until, after long moments, she asked;

"Would you like to go through into the sitting room and we can have some coffee? Or a nightcap?"

"You wouldn't happen to have any whiskey, would you?" he asked, mirth in his eyes as he teased her.

"I'm sure I'll be able to find some," she replied, with equal good humour.

His heart beat astoundingly quickly as she took his hand, and did not leave go as she lead him through into the sitting room, where the whiskey and glasses were already laid out for them on a tray.

"Am I that predictable?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied, grinning at him, "I asked Molesley to leave it out for us so he just has to clear the dining room, then he can go to bed."

She must have caught the look in his eye as she poured him a glass because her smile widened and retreated before she said, passing him the tumbler of amber liquid;

"Though I think I should warn you; Matthew will be coming back tonight."

"Oh," he murmured, a little taken aback and abashed that she had read him so easily, and in doing so had deduced such dishonourable intentions.

But when she spoke, she too sounded distinctly rueful.

"It wouldn't do to have him almost come bursting in on us again," she remarked.

"No," he agreed, "It wouldn't."

She sat down comfortably beside him.

He was thinking to himself that, this time around, when they made love for the first time, because by now he hoped with all his heart that they would and thought it might be possible, he was going to take his time with her. He was going to savour every moment, every touch. He was going to spend hours loving her first, making sure that she knew she was loved. There would be nothing hurried or rushed about it. A quick and furtive fumble on the couch certainly would not do.

"Richard," she spoke with a measured and level voice, "Just because we can't... It doesn't mean that you can't kiss me."

It was uncanny, the way she could read his mind at the moment. He smiled, putting his glass down on the table, putting his hands tenderly on her waist.

It would never have done to have made love to her when she was vulnerable, when she was upset about her son, and only just recovering from the hurt he had caused her by asking his stupid questions.

They smiled at each other, their eyes looking deeply at one another as their lips met and she wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing them closer together. So many times that he had kissed her she seemed to taste of whiskey. He smiled against her mouth at the thought, and their kiss grew open-mouthed and passionate. This woman was his home. His wife. Everything he wanted.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	20. Chapter 20

**I'm sorry I missed posting a chapter yesterday, I got home too late to start writing. I'd love a review to let me know what you think of this. **

"Richard."

She spoke into the darkness, her head resting on his chest. He felt the gentle rumbles of her voice and the slight movements of her jaw against his skin and flesh. His hand gently caressed her shoulder, brushing up and down the top of her arm before he answered her.

"What is it, my love?" he asked her.

"There's something I have to tell you."

She must have felt him tense slightly beneath her. He realised that her body was a little wrought with tension, and he continued to stroke her shoulder, trying to ease her. He felt her expel a deep, warm breath and waited for her to speak.

"I think... My...I'm late," she finally told him.

There was a pause. For a second he did not know what she was talking about and then the realisation hit him, very hard. He expelled a shallow breath in shock.

"Oh," was all he could manage at first, "And do you think you're-..."

"Yes," she told him, "I'm almost certain."

"Oh," he said again, his voice growing graver and holding more gravity each time, "Oh."

He heard her sigh again.

"Richard, I think you'd better put the light on."

"Yes," he agreed, purely for something to do to calm his mind, because suddenly it was reeling and he did not know what to do or to say, "Of course."

Briefly, he reached over to the oil lamp at the side of the bed, lighting it as deftly as he could. His hand was trembling just a fraction. The light helped a little, but also daunted him; he could see her face but she could also see his. By the time he returned to the centre of the bed, she was sitting up beside him, resting her back against the wooden headboard, her knees drawn up to her chest and the blanket hugged around herself. He sat similarly, his legs straight out in front of himself; his hands resting nervously on the blanket over his thighs. Neither of them spoke for long moments. The possibility of something like this happening was so obvious, and it was suddenly incredible to him that the idea hadn't occurred to him before now. Well, it was rather too late now for it to be only just occurring to him. He wished he could feel something, but he was too full of shock and disbelief.

"Are you sure?" he asked, just to be certain.

"Yes," she replied, more firmly than before. She paused for a second before listing her symptoms, calmly and rationally, like she had them already catalogued, "My breasts have been tender. I haven't had a period for six weeks. And, I've been feeling a bit queasy during the morning rounds."

"You should have said," he told her, "I'd have-..."

"Yes, I know," she gave him a small smile, "But I didn't want you to and I wasn't ready to say. I'm sorry."

"It's ridiculous, at my age," she remarked rather dryly, an ironic smile on her lips.

There was another soft, tender silence; full of the poignancy of the moment.

"Is the child mine?" he asked finally, finally speaking the question that felt like lead in his heart and lungs with forced calm in his voice, "Or is it Reginald's? That is...if you're in a position to know."

She looked at him, her eyes a little wide.

"Reginald's at the front," she reminded him, "And even if he wasn't I would say that the chances were highly stacked in favour of it being yours. You have to admit," she added with a certain rueful honesty, "We were never very careful."

His heart swelled with compunction. He was very quiet.

"Was that the answer you wanted?" she asked him eventually.

"I don't know," he told her honestly, "I've no idea."

Silence.

"Isobel, what on earth are we going to do?"

"I don't know," she told him in return.

A thought occurred to him, all of a sudden.

"Will you tell Reginald that the baby is his?" he asked.

"Richard, I don't-..." she looked shocked. She turned her head sharply and looked at him with great concentration.

"Because it would be the easiest thing for you to do," he pointed out, "And I wouldn't blame you for it at all if you did."

Her look of shock grew.

"What about you?" she asked, her voice quiet. By the sound of it, she could not quite believe that he was suggesting this.

"I don't matter in this," he replied, "I've caused this problem. It's my fault that you have to face all of this. You matter, and the baby matters."

"You matter too," she insisted, her jaw clenched a little, sounding almost angry at his suggestion, "Don't you dare say that, Richard. All three of us matter. This is all as much my fault as it is yours."

He saw there were tears in her eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. He did not know what to say.

But she did.

"You're the father on my child," she told him, a tear sliding down her cheek, "Of course you matter."

His lips parted.

"Isobel-..."

She silenced him with a look, with the silent intensity of the look in her eyes. Her hand slipped onto his where it rested in his lap, taking it in hers and lifting it. She flattened her own knees so that the blanket slipped down, exposing her breasts and her stomach. Guiding his hand gently, she brought the curve of his thumb to rest perfect against the curve of her stomach, aligning them perfectly. Her hand ceased to guide him, but rested tenderly over his. He could feel her breathing; he could almost sense the new life beneath their skins. He looked up at her eyes and found her still gazing at him intently. She was so beautiful; the thought that she was the mother of his baby made her more so. Her skin was soft and alive and the waves of fair hair that tumbled down over her shoulders shone in the light of the lamp. They seemed to be breathing at the same time as one another. She was unbelievable. Gently, he brushed the pad of his thumb against her stomach, stroking her tenderly, and she gave a tiny whimper. She closed her eyes for a second and recovered herself. Their bodies were so close together. Her eyes were open again and she looked at him so clearly with the beautiful brown eyes that had struck him the first time he met her.

"You're the father of my child," she whispered again, "You're a part of me."

"Isobel-..." his voice seemed to give way, and all he could do was breathe raggedly.

Lifting both her hands to his face, she bought him to her and kissed him. His hand still rested on her stomach, still touching her, but in the movement brought about by their passionate kisses his fingers slipped from her skin, down to rest between her legs. He touched her and she gasped. He stroked her with the tip of his fingers and she parted her legs further to allow him access.

"Isobel, I'll be here for you," he told her, whispering it in her ear as their lips broke apart, "No matter what, whatever it takes. I'm so happy that the child is mine."

His words were punctuated by her gentle moans. He met her eyes, silently asking permission, asking if she was alright. She nodded, and he slipped a finger inside her.

"I love you, Isobel."

…**...**

He examined her, at the hospital, and it seemed that her suspicions were true. He told her not to come into the hospital if she did not feel up to it. At the time she only shook her head, smiling at him, telling him he as a foolish man and that she was made of sterner stuff than that. He accepted this. And that was why it was such a worry when she did not turn up at the hospital for a week, sending the message each day that she was unwell.

In the meantime, Reginald returned from the front.

"I say," he asked Richard, when they were at the hospital together sorting out the next role that Crawley would be playing in the medical administration of Ladysmith, "The wife looks a bit off colour and she says she hasn't been into work for about five days. There isn't anything going round, is there? I'd hate to think she'd caught something."

"No," Richard replied, not untruthfully.

"No typhoid, or anything like that?"

"Nothing of the sort."

"It must have been something she ate then," Crawley commented, "The food can be a bit rough around here."

Richard neither bothered nor dared to correct him. There was a pause. Crawley smiled amiably at him, almost astounding him. In his anxiety to keep things concealed from Crawley, he had, absurdly, almost forgotten that Crawley did not already know.

"You will give her my regards, won't you?" Richard asked carefully.

"Of course."

…**...**

When he saw that she was back he was overjoyed. The sight of her literally caused his heart to soar. She looked paler, thinner, weaker, but still she wore a resolute, and he thought slightly forced, smile on her face as she saw him across the ward from where she stood hovering in the doorway. It seemed that she wanted to speak to him, and he certainly wanted to talk to her. He hurried towards her, ushering her back out of the ward into the quiet, narrow and mercifully deserted corridor outside.

"Hello," he told her quietly, taking her hands both in his, "I've been so worried about you. How are you?"

"Richard," she told him quietly, her voice very low and her eyes fixed on their hands, unable to look at him, "There's no baby."

"What?" he was sure he must have misheard her, though her words rang unmistakeably in his ears.

"We were mistaken," she told him, her hands squeezing his slightly and her voice straining with the effort of speaking quietly, and of drawing in her emotions, "I was mistaken. There's no baby."

There was a pause. He dithered a little and fidgeted, his fingers still tangled with hers.

"Well," he said finally, "It is easier this way. I suppose. I mean we won't... there won't be any need for... there won't be any trouble," he finished weakly, and unconvincingly.

She nodded.

"A thousand times easier," she agreed softly, "No trouble."

Her voice strained, and cracked, and broke, and tears fell down her face as he drew her into his arms.

"I'm alright," she was sobbing into his shirtfront, "It's just been a bit of a shock."

"Shh," he told her, kissing her forehead, "It's alright."

He held her tightly. Even if there was no baby, he did not feel any less like a part of her, and the sound of her crying physically shook him. She clutched a little at his shirt before her tears gradually came to a halt. There was a silence, and she raised her head weakly.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, rather absurdly.

"I'm alright if you're alright," he told her firmly.

She nodded firmly, wiping her eyes. There was a long pause.

"Let's get to work," she told him quietly, something in the softness of her voice that he could not quite put his finger on spelling out infinite sadness, "Let's go and make people better."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	21. Chapter 21

**I'm sorry about the delay, I've been addressing Call the Midwife prompts. I'd absolutely love a review to keep me going. **

In great haste, Richard tore down the front steps of the hospital quickly pulling his coat on over his waistcoat and into the motorcar that was waiting for him. He had barely closed the door before Mr Branson was pulling away. He lent forwards anxiously in his seat to talk to the chauffeur.

"Have you any idea what happened?" he asked.

"Not much," Branson replied, "I only know her Ladyship was taken ill, and his Lordship said I was to come for you at once. Fortunately, Mrs Crawley was there visiting Lady Sybil when they found her and she was looking after her when I left."

"Iso- Mrs Crawley is there?" he asked.

"Yes," Branson told him, "She went straight up the moment she heard."

Richard was silent for a moment. On the one hand, Isobel being there, her competence and sense, would undoubtedly make his job a lot easier for him when he got there. On the other hand, another part of his brain worried about her. He did not want her to see anything that might upset her, and from what Branson had told him, the likelihood was that she would see something very bad indeed. He did not doubt her ability or her professionalism, but this was her family and something like this was almost certain to uncover painful memories. He sat there weighing up the possible outcomes; Isobel's presence could save Lady Grantham's life or it could ruin Isobel's mental did not do to think about. It was vital that he got to her as fast as he could, but Branson was already driving as fast as he could.

"What do you mean "when they found her"?" he asked. Those words filled him with dread, if her Ladyship had not even been able to seek help for herself.

"Miss O'Brien found her in the bathroom," Branson told him, "And before I forget, Doctor, Mrs Hughes asks that you see that O'Brien's alright before you go. She had quite a shock."

Richard nodded.

"Of course," he told him curtly. He wanted to ask how Isobel was, but knew he couldn't, and that even if he could have done, Branson was unlikely to know.

As soon as he got to the house he was met by a very fraught-looking Carson, who took his coat and ushered him straight up the stairs.

Making his way unaccompanied to Lady Grantham's room, he met Isobel in the corridor, coming the other way. One look at her face told him all he needed to know. He paused for a moment before her.

"How is she?" he asked quietly.

"She's very weak," she told him, "But I think she's stable. I was just coming to see where you were. I've left her with O'Brien and Anna. O'Brien seems to have had a bit of a shock, but she won't leave her. I thought it was alright, just for a few moments."

If Lady Grantham was alright, then the look of despair she had been wearing as they met could only mean one thing.

"What about the baby?" he asked her, hardly daring to hear the answer.

As she spoke he thought he could almost hear the lump in her throat. She shook her head sadly.

"I'm afraid there's no hope for the baby," she told him, sounding brave at first, but then her voice slipped, "The baby is dead."

"Oh, Isobel," he murmured, "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you had to-..."

"It's alright," she told him quickly, "It's not the first time I've seen it since. I'll be alright. It isn't as if it's your fault!" she added, with very forced bravado.

"Go and have a rest if you want to," he told her calmly.

"I'm alright," she told him again, "I'll help you."

He shook his head.

"Isobel, you're shaking," he told her, nodding at her hand which rested by his arm.

She looked down; evidently she had not noticed up until now.

"I was alright when I was in there," she assured him, "It's only now-..."

"Yes, I know," he told her, "It happens like that. It's alright. Go and have a rest. If her Ladyship is stable, then there won't be much for me to do. There isn't much I can do; only examine her, make sure she's recovering. And then I'll give O'Brien a quick check. Then I'll come to you. You've done remarkably well, Isobel," he told her gently.

She looked exhausted. Exhausted and sad.

"I'll be in the drawing room," she told him, her voice sounded incredibly hollow, "I'll be here if you need me."

"Thank you," he told her.

He squeezed her hand, partly for her sake, partly for his own, before he continued to make his way along the corridor towards her Ladyship's room.

…**...**

She was still in the drawing room, as she had said, by the time he left. She was alone. He had left the rest of the family queueing up soberly in the corridor upstairs to see Lady Grantham, one at a time. Isobel had seen all she needed to see, all she could take, and had stayed where she was downstairs. She sat in the window seat, her back to the glass watching the door rather blankly. Her figure was silhouetted slightly against the bright light and it darkened her appearance. She still looked tired, so weary, with the remnants of distress lingering in her expression.

As he approached her, her eyes flitted towards him; she took one look at him and burst into tears. She had been on the verge of this all day, he realised, and had only been able to hold herself together through the most heroic effort. He hurried forwards, sitting down beside her on the window seat, wrapping his arm tightly around her and holding her to him.

"Oh, my darling," he murmured, kissing her hair, "You've done so well. You've been so brave."

Her hand clutched the front of his jacket.

"How could this happen twice, Richard?" she asked between sobs, "This is so cruel."

"I know," he told her quietly.

"I can't bear it," she whispered almost savagely, "I should have been able to help Cora more than I did. I should have-..."

"No, you shouldn't," he told her softly, "You did everything you could possibly have done, Isobel. After the fall she seemed to have had, I'd say it was a credit to you that she made it at all."

"That was O'Brien," she told him, sounding rather sober, her tears having ceased, "She calmed her down a lot. I couldn't have done it without her."

He smoothed his thumb up and down her back. Her posture slumped to the side, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I couldn't save her baby, Richard," she told him hollowly, "Just like I couldn't save my own. Our baby."

"Shh," he told her gently, kissing her hair.

"You can't know how it feels," she told him, talking levelly, almost to herself, "When a baby dies like that. The emptiness. I can still feel it sometimes. Oh God, poor Cora."

He closed his eyes tightly. He could hardly bear to hear her talking like this.

"Hush, Isobel, my love," he told her softly.

She must have heard the strain in his voice because she sat up a little, looking at his face.

"Sorry, Richard," she murmured gently, resting her hand gently on his chest, "I didn't think."

"It's alright," he told her softly, "It's alright, Isobel."

They were silent for a few moments, a horrible empty silence, full of death. She rested a hand on her face, covering her eyes.

"I want to get out of here," she told him quietly, "I don't want to stay here any more, I have to get outside. I feel awful."

"Let's get you home," he told her, "You'll feel better after a bath and something to eat."

She smiled at him as he offered her a hand to help her up.

"Thank you, Richard. I don't know how I'd manage without you."

"You won't ever have to," he told her quietly.

Her smile, though sad, widened just a touch.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thank you so much for your reviews. They are wonderful and very encouraging. **

"Reginald knows."

Her words hit him like a slap in the face. She spoke them without emotion, merely informing him of the fact and offering no hint of a judgement or opinion on the matter. She delivered them brusquely and without preamble, and for that he was grateful. But he was utterly unprepared for what she told him next.

"He knows about us. And he wants me to go home, with him."

He stared at her.

"What?"

This time when she answered him, he thought he heard her voice give a little at the end.

"He wants us to go home," she told him again, "That's why I think he knows about us. I'm almost certain of it. It was his idea to come here, he was desperate to. I didn't think anything would ever persuade him to leave. But now I think this might. He would never leave for anything less."

"But you can't..." he struggled with his words for a moment. Without realising it he had sunk down heavily into his chair. She remained standing before him, "You can't know for certain that he knows just fr-..."

"It's the way he looks at me," she told him firmly, decisively, and he knew that she was fully convinced, "It's different now. So is the way he touches me."

He didn't like to think of anyone else touching _his_ Isobel, and he pushed the thought aside quickly. A deep frown creased her brow as she continued.

"I don't now how to explain it, except to say that he's so full of reproach now. Every time he looks at me: wordless reproach. He can't bring himself to say it. God knows, he doesn't even seem to be angry, just terribly terribly hurt." She gave a humourless laugh. "You would hardly believe it. Most men in his position would be furious, they might even try to hurt you, kill you even, or me. But not Reginald. No, we've hurt him too much for that. He doesn't know what to do."

Except leave. But that thought was still too horrible to be dealt with.

Richard was silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry that we did," he reflected after a few seconds, "I'm sorry that he had to be hurt."

But even as he said it, he knew that, given the chance to live it all again, he would have done nothing different. No, that was wrong; he'd have been less reticent, less restrained. He would have gone to her sooner. He knew she could tell what he was thinking just by looking at his face. Her eyes burned with gratitude and sorrow, and she had to avert her gaze when she spoke again to stop her voice shaking.

"Yes," she replied, hollowly, "So am I."

There was a very long pause.

"Are you going to go back?" he asked her.

"What do you mean?" she seemed genuinely surprised by his question.

"Will you go back with him?" he asked her, "To England?"

"What did you think I-... Oh, Richard, of course I'm going to," she told him, her eyes torn between bewilderment at his doubt of the fact that she would and regret at the visible hurt it caused him, "I'm sorry. But I don't see that I have any choice."

"Of course you have a choice!" he insisted, leaning forwards in earnest towards where she stood.

"Richard," she told him, seeming to shy away a little though her feet did not move, "I know what you're thinking. Don't."

"A difficult one, I know, but don't tell me it's not still a choice."

"Richard-..."

He stood up, moving towards her, taking a hold of her wrists. He could not help himself; it did not matter if she did not want to hear the truth of the situation; she had to.

"You could stay here with me," he told her, "Reginald would divorce you, I'm sure, if you asked him. And even if he wouldn't, still, you could stay. There would be a home for you. There will always be a home for you, Isobel, where I am. You could stay with me, and we could always be together. It would be difficult in lots of ways, but we would be happy, I know it."

"Richard," she told him, shaking her wrists, making him let go,"You don't know what you're asking me to decide. If I stayed with you I would never see my son again."

They were both quiet for a moment; try as he might he could think of no response to that. He turned his back, then fell weakly back into the chair. He suddenly felt exhausted.

"And I can't do that," she told him, her eyes falling to the ground, unable to look at him, "Not for you, not for anyone."

Still he was quiet.

"Reginald knows I couldn't," she explained quietly, "That's why he is making me choose. He knows that if the choice was between you and him I would choose you in a heartbeat, every single time. So he's making me choose between you and Matthew."

Finally, words managed to choke out of his throat. His eyes flitted upwards to her straight and solitary figure.

"But I love you."

"Richard," she told him, sounding very tired, "Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

"It couldn't get any more difficult," he told her passionately, "I _love_ you. I can't live without you, I don't want to live without you. How can you stand there and say this isn't already the hardest thing in the world," his eyes almost blurred with tears and he felt angry, his voice raw as he leant forwards, his hands subconsciously clasping together, begging her, "When I'm telling you that I love you? You thought you were carrying my child, for heavens sake!"

She stood there, her hands limply by her sides, looking as if she could not think of what to say.

"Darling-..." she began.

"Don't, Isobel," he told her, sitting back, pressing his hand to his mouth, then speaking again, "Just, don't."

"I love you too."

He was silent.

"I've always loved you."

She moved hastily forwards, bending down to kneel on the floor between his parted knees, gripping his thighs, pressing her head under his and forcing him to look at her. There were tears in her eyes. She had weakened, somehow; yet she was more fervent and ardent. And helplessly weakened, her voice thick with emotion.

"I've _always_ loved you, and this _is_ the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I've loved you since the moment I saw you. Believe me. And when I was going to have your child, I wasn't scared like I should have been. I was _so_ happy, because I was carrying a piece of you, a piece of us inside of me. It was the happiest time of my life."

There was silence. He could hardly speak. Their eyes met.

"Wait-... Isobel," he stopped her, "You _were_? What?"

She was silent, realising she had slipped up.

"We weren't mistaken," she told him after a long moment, looking down at her hand on his knee,"When you think about it, it's unlikely that we both would have been." There was a tiny pause. "I miscarried."

He was thunderstruck.

"And you didn't tell me?" he asked incredulously.

"I didn't want you to feel the loss that I did."

This, of all things that she had said to him, nearly shattered his heart. Trembling, he leant forwards, resting his chin on her shoulder, burying his face into her hair and drawing her into his arms.

"Isobel- darling-..." He could hardly think of what to say. He wanted to sob into her hair, her beautiful, sweet-smelling hair, "You should have told me. I should have born it with you- I would have born it all for you if I could have done. I love you so much and I've put you through hell."

She did not deny it, but as she surveyed him softly she told him;

"You also gave me the happiest time of my life."

He could not help it; his voice shook in a sob next to her skin; he was trembling violently.

"Shh," she told him, "It's alright."

But he knew it wasn't, no matter what she said. He could tell that she was crying too.

When they pulled apart, they looked at one another's tear-stained faces, and he brushed her misplaced hair back behind her ear so tenderly. She smiled at the gesture.

"When I'm gone you had better forget me," she warned him, "I cause nothing but trouble."

He pressed his lips to her forehead with equal tenderness; so softly that he her her whimper a little in anguish.

"I will never forget you," he told her, "Not for as long as I live."

They rested there for another moment; his chin resting against her forehead.

"You're the only person I'd ever want to marry, Isobel. You are my wife," he paused, "You're the only wife I'll ever have."

Her hand rested on his chest, brushing backwards and forwards in the smallest movements.

"I know. I should have married you," she whispered.

Neither could say any more. They both felt too much. Everything, everything was too difficult.

"How long do you think we have left?" he asked, though he barely dared to, he was too afraid of what the answer would be.

"I don't know," she replied, "A few weeks, I expect. Everything is still to be arranged."

He kissed her, his hands clutching her shoulders.

"That's something, at any rate."

"Yes, that is something."

"Stay with me tonight. I can't be alone tonight."

She withdrew a little, looking at him levelly.

"If he already knows, surely it's less of a risk," he pointed out, "There's nothing to risk any more."

"Yes," she replied after a moment, a sighing a little, but still somehow conveying a world of grief, "You're right. And I don't want to be without you either."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	23. Chapter 23

**I'm super scared about this chapter. Hope it's alright. Thank you for all of your encouragement and reviews, they mean a lot to me.**

And by the time he next spoke to her alone, war had broken out. At Lady Grantham's rather subdued garden party, he caught sight of her face across the lawn as the announcement was made. She was staring up at her son's resolute expression, looking utterly aghast. He wanted to speak to her then, to reassure her, but she was nowhere to be found among the disconsolate guests milling around in the garden and house. Asking Carson, he found that she and Matthew had gone home, apparently not on very good terms with one another.

He paused for a second. He badly wanted to see her. But then he had no wish to intrude upon family matters. After a moment, he snorted to himself at the ridiculousness of this thought. Of all his intrusions into Isobel's family matters, this one had to be fairly minor. And he badly wanted to see her. Thanking Carson for his help, he set off back towards the village.

Much to his alarm, the front door of Crawley House had been left open. This was a common sight at the working class houses in the village but much rarer at one belonging to the Earl of Grantham. But it was a very hot day.

He tapped on the wood of the open door. There was no answer. It seemed that perhaps Molesley and Mrs Bird were still up at the garden party attending to the guests. He did not know what to do, whether he should go inside or not. Normally he would never dream of such a thing, but the thought of Isobel in such distress as he had seen her in up at the house kept him rooted to the spot and undecided.

What made up his mind for him was the sound of shouting coming from the next room. The sound was muffled, but not so muffled that he couldn't tell it was Isobel. Though she often spoke passionately about all manner of different things, the occasions on which he had heard her shout or really lose her temper were rare. He took a breath and, not without an amount of apprehension and timidness, made his way through the front door and down the corridor and to the sitting room door. He tapped diffidently on the door. It was met by a sudden silence from the other side, and, hesitantly, he opened the door.

The scene that met his eyes made it clear, in spite of their sudden silence, that he had just interrupted a shouting-match between mother and son. Matthew sat sullenly in an armchair at the far end of the room as if he had been glowering out of the window but was now watching Richard as he entered. Isobel stood at his end of the room, her posture upright and impressive, though Richard noticed a slight hint of defensiveness in her eye. They both looked extremely surprised to see him, and he stood there awkwardly for a moment, looking towards Isobel. She seemed completely taken aback by his arrival.

Then Matthew spoke.

"I'm sorry to seem rude, Dr. Clarkson," he told him, as pleasantly as he seemed to be able to manage at the moment, "But my mother and I were having rather an important discussion. We were under the impression that it was a private one."

Matthew, like his father, became very formal when he was being defensive. And Isobel, as Richard knew, was always inclined to go the other way.

"Yes, you are being rather rude, Matthew," she told him sharply, "I'm glad you're here, Richard," she added to him, "I think you might be able to tell Matthew a thing or two about what he's proposing to do."

"Really, Isobel, I-..." The thought made him very awkward indeed; to impose himself as a father-figure to Matthew, and lecture him on heaven knows what (and he could probably guess, given what had happened today and the state Isobel was in). That was really too close for comfort.

Matthew seemed to think so too.

"I'm a grown man, Mother," he told her firmly.

"Act like one, then," she retorted, "Stop looking for the easy way out of things."

"You think going to war is easy?" he asked incredulously.

And then Isobel really lost her temper. She looked almost wild and for a moment Richard was quite frightened by her, by the almost murderous look in her eyes. He had never ever seen her lose her temper with her son before, and the greatness of her love for him seemed to fuel the intensity of her anger.

"Don't you talk to me about war!" she shouted, "It wasn't only your father who was in South Africa, though I didn't come back with any medals. The things Richard and I saw out there would turn your stomach, Matthew, you wouldn't know how to deal with them. And we lived through it," he ranger seemed to drain away from her, and for a moment Richard thought she might have exhausted herself in one short burst of anger. But her eye brightened up again and a moment later she was looking at her son with a raging compassion, "You're still only a boy, Matthew, in many ways. And in the wartime sense is one of those ways. Don't put yourself through hell- and believe me, it will be hellish- because at the moment it feels easier than staying here and facing Mary," she turned to Richard, "Mary says she won't marry him," she explained, "Of he won't marry her because of something she said. I can't get it out of him either way."

"Mother!" Matthew hissed at her in irritation.

She did not heed his irritation, but it turned her attention back to him.

"Darling, don't run away," she pleaded with him, "Because joining up would only be that. It wouldn't be heroic, because war is not heroic, it's madness. It would be far more heroic to stay and face things here. You've had your head filled with nonsense about war by your father and Cousin Robert who don't understand that there are other kinds of bravery that they can't even think of. Well, let me tell you," and here her voice grew angry again, "Let me tell you something about your sainted father. He ran away, just like you want to now. Things got difficult, and he couldn't face them. He ran off back to England, and he left the hard part to us," she indicated to herself and Richard, "We were left to face things by ourselves."

Richard didn't know whether he or Matthew was more shocked by what Isobel had just said. Then he saw her face and he realised that she was far more shocked than either of them was. What had she just told him? There had been no doubt that she was referring to him, Richard, and by the look on Matthew's face the boy had been able to work the rest out for himself.

"Mother," his voice sounded almost like a little boy's, so terribly unsure, completely caught off guard, "Tell me you didn't mean what-..."

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

"I'm sorry, Matthew, but it's true," she told him, her eyes still closed, "Richard and I were lovers in South Africa. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. And I'm ashamed of betraying your father."

Matthew's face was set, and he was just as angry as Isobel had been a few moments earlier, their expressions uncannily similar.

"How dare you lecture me, Mother?" he asked, "When you-...?"

Her eyes flew open.

"Because though I don't claim the moral highground, I do claim a superior understanding," she told him sharply, "I'm deeply ashamed that I was unfaithful to your father. But how am I supposed to be ashamed that I loved a man who was twice the hero your father could ever have been? How am I supposed to be ashamed that I'm still in love with him? And how are you supposed to understand that?"

Matthew stood up, his face shocked, appalled.

"I need to be alone for a while, Mother," he told her with surprising dignity. "I have a lot to think about. I may spend the night at one of the estate cottages."

Isobel said nothing at first, and then, in a voice so soft that Richard could hardly believe it came from the same woman who had just shouted so passionately.

"Alright, my love. You will be alright, won't you? You'll have plenty to eat and you'll keep warm?"

"Yes," Matthew replied in equally level terms, pointedly not looking at Richard, "I'll go to the pub."

"Alright," Isobel told him again, her head bowed in resignation.

The door slammed behind him, and the front door too. Isobel turned to look at him properly for the first time since he'd entered the room. And then she was sobbing, in his arms, which for so long had stood at his side, awkward and vacant, and, almost gratefully, he held her tightly to him.

"What happened, my love?" he asked her, "You never quarrel with Matthew."

"Oh, I don't know," she told him, "He just kept talking and talking all the way home about how now he wasn't going to marry Mary he might as well join up because there's nothing else for him here, and I snapped. I just kept thinking, am I not here for you? Did I not give up another life to be here for you? Is that selfish of me, Richard?" she asked him.

"Not in the slightest," he told her firmly.

"The last thing he needed was for me to react like that," she added ruefully, "After the day he's had. What sort of mother am I? I should have supported him, I should have-..."

"You have supported him," he told her, "But you've also tried to make him see sense. Whatever you did, Isobel, you did because you love him. Am I right?"

He felt her nod fervently against his chest.

"Oh, Richard, I can't bear to see him throw his life away like this," she told him, "But I have to support his decision. I've always supported his decisions. I just wish-..."

She did not quite seem to be able to put it into words, but he felt her grief profoundly.

"Yes, I know," he told her, and tightened his arms around her.

They stayed like that for a long time. After a while, their heads resting together all the time, he turned his face towards hers and kissed her cheek and she reciprocated. They planted gentle, loving kisses on each others cheeks, jaws, foreheads, lips. They broke apart again and she let out a long sigh.

"I said so much that I shouldn't have," she lamented quietly, "Richard, I told him about us. I can't believe it. I wouldn't be surprised if he never spoke to me again, I would blame him."

"I would," he replied curtly. She looked at him in surprise. "Isobel, you gave _this _up for him. He has no right to blame you for it. And I am willing to explain that to him if need be. I don't require him to forgive me, but you-..."

He broke off. She was smiling up at him, quite strangely.

"Thank you, Richard," she whispered, warmly, sadly.

His frown relaxed.

"It's alright, my love. Anything for you. Anything."

She relaxed, contented, placated once more, into his arms and rested against his chest. In spite of all that had happened, all that was happening, his heart soared. She had said that she loved him. She was still in love with him. His hand rested protectively on the middle of her back. He had meant it, he would do anything for her.

"Richard?" she raised her head, speaking gently, meeting his eyes, "Would you mind if we-..." she broke off, and said in a much firmer voice, "Take me to bed. Make love to me."

He let out a breath that he did not realise he had been holding.

"Oh, God, Isobel, I love you."

He felt her smile as he sank his lips to her jaw, kissing her fervently.

"I love you too, Richard. I've always loved you."

…**...**

They locked the door tightly behind themselves. They had never had to worry about servants before. They had always made love at his flat, and the idea of having servants there would have been laughable.

He took hold of her hands, walked her to the bed. Neither of them spoke, but both of them smiled, sadly and yet at the same time joyfully, as they sat down on the edge of the bed, kissing, falling backwards, wrapped up in each other. It occurred to him that they had never made love in peacetime. One day, hopefully.

He kissed every inch of her skin as it became exposed. He undressed her uncannily slowly, making her writhe with impatience. He was determined to take his time with her now, after their hurried and frantic first time. Oh, but how good it had been, making love to her like that, making her his. But he had as much been made hers, the way she had taken him-... Memories welled up inside him as he looked at her. He could hardly believe he was like this with her again.

His hand had completely stilled on her waist. She seemed to realise what was going through his mind. She looked into his eyes and he knew that she knew. It had always been like that. She smiled, lifting his hand from her waist, planting a kiss on his palm and then tenderly moving his hand back to her body, so that it rested over her exposed corset. He smiled at her, pulling her back to him, kissing her, sucking on her bottom lip until she pined and wrapped her hands in his hair.

He continued removing her clothes. He thought her body had changed remarkably little despite the passage of the years. He touched her bare breasts again, caressing her softly, as if she would break. He licked her nipples, lapped at them until she moaned and rocked against his leg, which he had slipped between her thighs.

Her hand slipped inside his trousers, touching him, making him gasp against her skin.

"Isobel," he moaned, "Don't. Not if you want-..."

"Come on, then," she told him, a smile on her lips, "I want you. Take your trousers off, and lie on your back."

She was naked now and she met his eyes. He did as she told him to.

Before she straddled him, his hand darted out and he touched her between her legs. She was so wet under his fingers, and she gasped in surprise. But a second later it faded into an almost blissful smile. She rested her hands on his chest, pushing her legs over him.

"Richard," she almost growled, her voice playful, and passionate and naughty, "Just let me, my darling. Just let me."

Straddling his waist, he felt her wetness on his stomach. It was always going to be like this. She was always going to come back to him like this. He felt so closed to her he could hardly believe it, like they were part of one another's thoughts. It was perfect. She moved against him and he groaned. Biting her lip, she raised herself up and lowered herself down onto him, her eyes never leaving his face. They both gasped at the feeling and he sat up, pulling her into his arms and embracing her tightly. He could not move otherwise, he could feel her stretching, adjusting herself to him after long abstinence. Their eyes met.

"I've always loved you."

"I've always loved you."

Their lips met and they kissed fiercely, their arms tightly around each other, their chests pressed together. She began to move against him, rocking her hips into his as he bucked upwards to meet her. Their lips parted and he whispered in ear over and over again, "I love you. I love you." Their passion was so intense that neither of them could last long; they came within seconds of one another, both crying out each others names.

**I'd really love a review! **


	24. Chapter 24

**I'm really sorry about the delay; I've been rather preoccupied with Call the Midwife. I'd really appreciate a review to let me know what you think of this. **

When he woke his head was groggy with sleep; he could have only been sleeping for a few hours. He and Isobel had made love late into the night; their last night together. He would keep the memories of this night locked deeply inside him for as long as he lived; to preserve them and to bury them, with them playing on his mind he imagined that he would be incapable of living a normal life. He could not think, he hardly thought he could breathe; thinking if the last desperate touches of their lips together- trying to taste enough kisses to last a lifetime- because they knew they could not be together after tonight. He could hardly bare to think of the way she had held on, trying to hold back her release, because she knew that once she came it would be over. Forever.

He let out a poorly stifled groan. Lying on his front, he exhaled deeply, raising his head from where it rested on his mattress. At the same time reached over to Isobel's side of the bed, his palm open for her, fingers reaching out and-...

She was gone.

He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes, suddenly alert. He scanned the floor beside the bed; her clothes were gone. He strained his ears and the flat was silent apart from his panicked, surprised breathing. She was gone. He hadn't even said goodbye to her. They had simply fallen asleep in each other's arms last night, both desperately tired, both weeping quietly, him stroking her hair gently.

About to collapse back onto the mattress under the weight of the most total despair he had ever known, the most complete loneliness, that seemed to be billowing out of his heart and filling his whole body, he caught sight of something. A note on the pillow; in her handwriting. Her beautiful, unmistakable handwriting.

_My darling Richard._

_I never thought that I would leave you like this. I never thought I'd slip away before you woke, because I knew I could never go if I looked into your eyes and told you what I'm about to write. I cannot say goodbye to you, my voice physically won't do it. I never imagined that anything less than death would be able to drag us apart. Because I have loved you, Richard, I have, more strongly, more passionately than I have ever loved anyone in my life. More than I can trust myself to say. Love made me think that anything was possible, if only briefly, in mindless moments when we were the only two people in the world. I would say that I couldn't imagine another person could know what it is like to bear a love like this, but I think you might as well. _

_But I was a fool to think that would mean we could always be together. Sensibly, I always knew it would come to this, one way or another. I cannot give my son up, Richard. I cannot give you up easily, but I cannot give Matthew up at all. It may seem as if I have been given some choice in this, but I want you to know that it does not feel like that to me. I cannot abandon my boy. I would never be able to live with myself if I did. Do you understand that? I think you do. I hope you can, and I hope you can forgive me for what I am going to do._

_I want you to live a happy life, and if that means trying to forget me, so be it, I would not begrudge you it in the slightest. But I never want you to forget me. I wish I could have lived my life with you, with you and my Matthew. I don't mind telling you, I am frightened to forget a single thing that has happened between us, I don't want to forget. You have been everything to me here, Richard, you have changed me beyond recognition, you have changed my life beyond anything I could have imagined. I have never known love like this before, and don't think I ever will again. To forget you would mean forgetting a part of myself now. _

_You have made me see so many things; you have let me know what love is. Love is not about acquiring or gain. For love you give up, you give up, you give up, one thing and then another, over and over. You give up until your whole body hurts and your heart sits in the wrong place in your chest. Love is the most complete, the most unconditional surrender of life. The darting flutters of chatter and rumour, the gentle wallows of shame; nothing means anything compared to love, everything is nothing. Nothing else matters._

_I want all of this to be written on my skin so that people can see it; not just surging, beating, pounding invisibly in my blood. I want it to be written as you have written me, created me, built my body and shaped my mind. I want people to know that with you I was whole for the first time and that once something has been written the act of writing cannot be undone, it can be erased but not unwritten. It lingers even then in silence and in darkness. Nothing can be undone, and the fact that you were my life will remain, and become my life from now on. I want all of this marked on my body._

_Don't make me say all of the things that I wish had happened. I wish above all that I did not have to leave, that I could be with you and Matthew always. I wish our baby had lived. I wish I could be yours-... and in a way I always shall be, whether you choose to forget me or not. There is nothing I wanted more than to be always with you; to walk into a country with no bounds, no wars, no hurt and to keep walking and never look back. _

_I could write forever and it would never seem like I had said enough. In the end all I can say, my darling, is that I love you and will always think of you._

_Goodbye, my love._

_Your Isobel _

He read it. He read it again. He wondered how the sky was not collapsing. He-... He could not think of the life that was beginning for him now, whether he was ready for it or not; the life without her.

The letter still in his hand, he crumbled, burying his face in the mattress- in the face of what should have been their marital bed- and sobbed until exhaustion and grief made him slip once more out of consciousness.

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	25. Chapter 25

**Thank you so much for your reviews. Only one more chapter to go after this one! I'd love to know what you think.**

As soon as he woke up he slipped gently out of her bed. Checking to see that she was still asleep, he hastily put his clothes on. With any luck he would be able to get back before she'd woken up and she wouldn't even know that he had gone. She was still sleeping soundly as he left her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

He walked very quickly down the High Street towards his cottage. This plan had been forming in his head ever since he had fallen back against the pillows of her bed, exhausted, sated, absolutely overwhelmed by her. In truth, this plan had been his intention ever since she had arrived in Downton. He knew he was walking with a spring in his step, and probably grinning like and idiot, but he couldn't care in the least; there was no one here to see him and he was simply too happy to notice what anyone else might think.

Even so, it seemed forever before he reached his front door. The sun was just beginning to rise. He hoped it wouldn't shine through her windows and wake her up, that was the last thing he needed. He fumbled with the door latch and let himself in. Once inside he did not pause to take off his jacket; he went straight to his study and unlocked the drawer of his desk.

It barely took him a moment to find her letter. He had kept it all of these years, and he had always known where it was; heaven forbid that he lost it. As he had expected, he found it immediately in the back of the old pocket book from his time in South Africa that he had also kept. He skimmed the words for a few seconds, reading the first lines. There was no need to, he knew them by heart. The paper was a little faded after fourteen years but it was still clearly recognisable and legible. He put it back in the pocket book to prevent it getting creased and tucked the whole thing in the inside pocket of his jacket.

The second item he was looking for took him a little longer, he had to dig a little deeper into the desk drawer. It was more obviously valuable and he had had to hide it more securely. But at last he unearthed it; the tiny blue box he remembered sitting on his mother's dressing table when he was a tiny boy. He opened the box and briefly inspected the ring. It was as lovely as he remembered, and he could only hope that she liked it. He slipped it into his coat pocket too and set off without further ado.

…**...**

"You bastard."

Evidently Isobel Crawley had not forgotten the colourful language she had learned wandering around the ward and officer's messes in her days in the army medical corps. She was standing there, beside the breakfast table looking at him with an expression of utter fury.

"Isobel-..." he took what was meant to be a soothing step towards her, reaching his hands out to her.

She was not in the right frame of mind to be soothed.

"You absolutely wretched man!" she in turn took a step towards him, pummelling him soundly on the chest for good measure, "I thought you'd gone! I thought you'd left me!"

"Isobel!" he told her sharply, taking hold of her wrists to prevent her dealing him any more glancing blows, "Stop it!"

"How could you do that, Richard?" she asked him, "On our first night together as well. Didn't you realise that I'd wake up...And when you weren't there... I thought all kinds of-..."

"Yes," he told her gently, bowing his head in defeat, "I know, it was stupid of me. But I came back, didn't I? I hoped you'd sleep through."

"I woke up; the bed was cold," she admitted, a little sheepishly. Evidently she had not expelled all of her anger with him for she added a moment later, in definitely steely tones, "You'd better have a damn good reason."

Their eyes met, and he knew that instant what he had to do. Without thinking any further he dropped to his knees in front of her.

It certainly had the effect of taking the wind out of her sails. She looked at him for a moment, her mouth gaping a little.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice completely different. Her hand went to her chest.

"Marry me?" he asked.

She did not say anything for a second. He reached forwards and took hold of her hand that rested by her side.

"I have waited fourteen years to be able to ask you," he told her, "I've never stopped loving you. I never want to have to leave you again, I want to be able to spend every night beside you. Here," he produced his pocket book from the inside pocket of his jacket, and held up the letter to her, "This is why."

She took it from his hands, reading it quickly. Her eyes widened as she realised what it was. And then, he did not know what she was doing at first, she dropped- more gracefully than he had done- to her knees in front of him. He parted his mouth in surprise but was not able to say anything before she pressed her lips to his, kissing him passionately, the letter still held between her fingers.

"You don't have to explain any more," she told him softly, murmuring in his ear, her arms holding him tightly, her voice soft, trembling, as if she was crying, "Of course I'll marry you, Richard. I've waited so long for this too. I know I've taken my time now, but I've always wanted-... _always_."

"I love you so much," he told her softly, holding her against his chest.

He felt her nod against him.

"We belong together," she said in such a quiet, almost strangled voice that he barely heard.

"Oh, God, Isobel, we do. We do."

He buried his face in her neck and they stayed as they were, rocking gently back and forth.

"Darling," she said finally, "We've got to get up or my legs will go to sleep."

He laughed gently, wiping the tears from his own eyes as they disentangled themselves. He stood up first and extended his hand to help her, squeezing her fingers tightly.

"I have a ring for you," he told her, reaching once more into the pocket of his jacket, "It was my mother's and it was left to me. I've known for years that you were the only woman I ever wanted to wear it. I hope you like it," he tucked the box gently into her hand.

"Oh, Richard, how could I not," she asked gently, opening it, "Oh, Richard-..." she said again in a different tone, low and awed, "It's beautiful."

"Can I put it on you?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she told him. Her eyes were shining a thousand times more than any diamond could as he took the ring from her and tenderly slipped it on to her left hand.

Her fingers were trembling a little, he noticed. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers, turned her hand over and kissed her palm.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She smiled wearily but at the same time ecstatically.

"I call you a bastard then agree to marry you," she told him, "I'm sorry."

He kissed her palm again.

"I'm very forgiving," he told her gently.

Their eyes met, and she giggled a little. He still clasped her hand tightly.

"Come on," she told him, tugging at his arm, "As seen as we were both up so early I think we can afford to slope off to bed again."

He glanced regretfully at the clock.

"For half an hour," he told her.

"That should just about be enough," she told him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	26. Chapter 26

**I'm so sorry about the delay; partly due to business, partly to distraction. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this, and reviewed me, and to everyone who was nice enough to remind me to finish it! I hope it doesn't disappoint. **

**Epilogue**

She rolled over away from him for a second, stretching her arm out, reaching for something. It was her left hand; he smiled to himself as he saw the rising morning light from the window reflecting off her engagement ring. As she turned back to him, he saw she had picked up her letter to him again, which she had let drop on her beside table as they fell back onto the bed together.

"Show this to Matthew," she told him, handing the letter to him, "Go and see him. Explain your intentions properly and give this to him."

He took it gently from her.

"Are you sure?" he asked, "Are you sure you want him to read what you wrote about-..."

Isobel nodded decidedly.

"Absolutely," she assured him, "I don't think anything in it will make his opinion of me lower than it is at the moment. And he needs to understand. This explains everything pretty clearly."

"Yes, it does," he agreed, "Alright then, if that's what you want."

"Matthew's very old-fashioned," she explained to him softly, "In a way, he's a lot more old-fashioned than either of us is. If you go and see him, do things properly, he's bound to come round to the idea more quickly."

"He did look terribly shocked," he remarked ruefully.

She let out a deep sigh, rolling to lie on her back.

"Well, wouldn't you?" she asked, rubbing a hand tiredly across her face, "He's every reason to be angry with me, I suppose, I should have told him."

Richard let out a long breath, sitting up a little to brush the side of her face with his hand. She softened a little under his touch and he saw the frown leave her forehead as she relaxed.

"What you said to him was right, you know," he told her, "It was right of you to tell him how you felt about him wanting to join up."

Her hand took his, bringing to her lips and kissing it, holding it still as their fingers wrapped together and their hands rested, clasped on her collarbone.

"It wouldn't be right of me to try and stop him going, though," she replied, "He's a grown man. It's his decision. I'll see what he says when he comes back, if he still-..."

"I should probably be gone by then," he remarked ruefully.

"Yes, you probably should," she agreed with just as much regret, "He doesn't know you stayed, and I doubt it would exactly get us into his good graces."

He kissed her lips quickly but soundly.

"I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you," she replied, a happy smile spreading over her lips as she looked back up at him.

…**...**

He did it properly; he made an appointment to see Matthew at his office. He waited anxiously in the corridor, the letter in his gloved hand, unable to stop himself from wondering how he would be received. Isobel had promised him that her son was not habitually violent and was unlikely to want to thrash him to within an inch of his life.

"And if he does," she had added wryly, "You'll be in an excellent place to begin your legal proceedings against him."

Still, Richard thought to himself, it wasn't her who Matthew might want to thrash, and the prospect alone, from where he was standing, was daunting.

But when he was admitted into Matthew's office it was with the utmost civility, a little terse perhaps, but he was offered a chair and asked if he would like anything to drink. He declined.

"There are some particular things I want to say," he announced, taking the chair gratefully, "If you'll hear them."

Matthew nodded. He was evidently disconcerted by Richard's humility and contriteness; perhaps he had expected him to be more brash.

"Go on," he invited him.

Richard took a breath.

"I love your mother very much," he told him, as plainly as he could, "It pains me to think that I might not be doing the right thing by her. I know I haven't in the past, and if I'd been a better man things would be very different to the way they are now. But they're not, and-... I want to make it up if I can. I want to marry her," he explained, "As soon as possible. I've already asked her- she is agreeable to the prospect, by the way- and we have every intention of getting married... irrespective of everything else. It's only fair to her. But," he paused for a second, collecting his thoughts, "I know it would mean so much to her if she knew we had your blessing."

For long moments, Matthew appeared to think about it.

"You'd get married anyway, even if I said no, wouldn't you?" he asked at last.

"I believe we would, yes," Richard replied as diplomatically as he could.

"It's just-... difficult to get used to," Matthew explained, "It's been rather a shock for me to find out that-..."

Richard nodded.

"Yes, I imagine it was," he agreed.

There was a pause.

"Your mother regrets very much that she didn't tell you sooner," he supplied quietly after a few moments, "At any rate, she didn't mean for you to find out like this."

Lifting the letter, now in his coat pocket, onto Matthew's desk, he handed it towards him.

"She wanted you to read this," he continued, "She thought it might help you to understand."

Taking the letter from him, Matthew took in the familiar but slightly altered handwriting, the oldness of the paper. He read the words carefully, his face changing as he followed the lines slowly and thoroughly. There was a lot of Isobel in his face as he read, and that was how Richard knew, before he had finished and looked up at him, that everything was going to be alright.

"Marrying you really will make her very happy, won't it?" Matthew asked at last, handing the paper back to him.

"Yes," Richard replied slowly, "I believe it will. I shall endeavour to that end at any rate."

Matthew let out a short sigh.

"Then it would be wrong of me to stop you, then," he replied, "And, yes, you can tell my mother that I have given my blessing. It's important to her-..." he looked vaguely awkward for a moment, "It's all very important to her obviously and-..." he paused for a second, "She has been very considerate towards me," he nodded towards the letter, one more in Richard's hand, "Really," he added, "I couldn't have asked for a better mother than her."

Quietly, Richard folded the letter, preparing to go.

"We will get married as soon as we can," he told him, "We want you to be there," he explained, "And, with your training-..."

Matthew gave a short smile.

"Yes. That's very kind of you both."

Richard got up, ready to leave.

"Take good care of her, Dr. Clarkson. Make her happy."

…**...**

They were married on a very clear day. The light was so full and thick as to have an almost solid quality as it fell over the branched of the trees, and the grey graves, in Downton churchyard. It was one of the last evenings of the year that would resemble summer, it was already a little cold.

It was only a small ceremony, just the family were invited. Matthew escorted Isobel down the aisle, wearing the uniform of his new regiment beside her very neat cream skirt suit. Her hair fell in its beautiful golden curls under her hat, Richard beamed at the sight of her and she smiled back at him, her eyes never wavering. It was like she was the only other person in the room. He remembered seeing her in white, at the top of the stairs in that awful old hotel in Ladysmith, in another lifetime, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. He had been married to her in his heart since then. And now-... this was their wedding. At last.

Matthew kissed her on the cheek as he left her at the alter, and then it was only them. He wanted to seize her, pull her close to him, hold her to his heart and never let go. She smiled at him still, took his hand, and he felt her joining in his palpable wish that the vicar would hurry would hurry up- because really this had been done years ago, this was so unimportant, this was the most important thing in the world, nothing else mattered but this. He was aware of every inflection of her smile as the words washed over them both, he was so attuned to her thinking.

They had fought so hard for this, and now they had it. He had placed his ring on her finger, and she placed hers on his. He stared into her eyes, kissing her hand as the vicar pronounced them man and wife. They had fought so hard for this home for themselves. This home would last, it already had lasted, though they knew things around them were going to change. This was all he asked for, all he had prayed for, every night, to a God he did not know he believed in, since he could remember. But maybe there was a God- a God who hears the lonely desperate prayer as he watches the soldiers in foreign lands, as he sees and forgives and seeks to let humans finally heal themselves as well as others- who had finally brought her back home to him.

He held her hand tightly, proudly as they left the church. Hiding mischievously behind the big oak door, Lady Sybil jumped out and threw confetti over them, and in that brief moment of obscured confusion, with no one else quite caught up with them yet, Isobel laughing in surprise, he buried his face beside her ear and murmured;

"I love you so much. I've always loved you."

**End.**

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